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Dames  and  Daughters 
OF  THE  French  Court 
By  Geraldine  Brooks 

Author  of  "  Dames  and  Daughters  of  Colonial 
Days,"  "  Dames  and  Daughters  of  the  Young 
Republic,''''   and  ^'Romances   of  Colonial  Days'"'' 


iJetD  ^Orll  :  Thomas  Y.  Crowell 
&  Company,  Publishers 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
THOMAS  Y.    CROWELL  &  CO. 


14 


DC 


PREFACE 


MUCH  has  been  written  about  French  women. 
Innumerable  volumes  pay  homage  to  them 
as  '' Salonists,"  "Queens  of  Society,"  "Celebrated 
Women."  One  might  almost  say  that  there  is  no 
end  to  the  literature  that  treats  of  these  certainly 
very  charming  subjects.  Here  and  there  a  writer, 
notably  Sainte  Beuve,  has  told  of  them  so  appre- 
ciatively, so  ultimately,  that  to  speak  after  such 
authority  seems  almost  an  impertinence. 

However,  it  is  sometimes  pleasant  to  meet  old 

2   friends  in  a  new  guise,  even  though  the  new  guise 

be  ever  so  simple  and  unpretentious.     It  is  with 

this  thought  in  mind  that  I  venture  to  offer  these 

"  Dames  and  Daughters  of  the  French  Court." 

It  may  seem  that  there  is  an  incongruity  in  the 
title.  Perhaps  it  is  not  as  dames  and  daughters, 
those  terms  of  eminently  domestic  flavor,  that  one 
naturally  thinks  of  French  women.  Nevertheless, 
in  spite  of  their  salons,  their  social  triumphs,  and 
their  literary  and  artistic  successes,  these  French 
women  really  were  dames  and  daughters  as  we 
understand  the  words.  Apart  from  that  very 
worldly  world  of  which  they  were  so  conspicuous  a 


IV  PREFACE. 

part,  they  lived  interior  lives  and  experienced  fire- 
side joys  and  sorrows. 

In  my  choice  of  characters  I  have  remembered 
this.  I  have  selected  from  the  brilliant  galaxy  of 
French  women  the  natural,  the  attractive,  the 
lovable  ones,  those  who  seem  most  truly  the  dames 
and  daughters  of  their  country.  They  are 
preeminently  worthy  of  an  intimate  acquaintance, 
of  friendship,  of  affection.  One  cannot  meet  them 
too  often.  It  is  with  this  recommendation  that  I 
present  them. 

G.  B. 

New  York,  June,  1904. 


OONTEKTS 


PAGE 

Madame  de  Sevignk  (1626-1696) 1 

Madame  de  La  Fayette  (1634-1693) 33 

Madame  Geoffrin  (1699-1777) 52 

Mademoiselle  de  Lespinassk  (1732-]776)       ....  G5 

Madame  Roland  (1754-1792) 94 

Madame  Le  Brin  (1755-1842) 175 

Madame  de  Stael  (1766-1817) 190 

Madame  Recamier  (1777-1849) 235 

Madame  Valmore  (1789-1859) 254 

Madame  de  Remdsat   (1780-1821) 269 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

Madamk  DE  Sevign^ Frontispieve. 

{From  a  painting  in  the  Musie  dc  Versailles.) 

Madame  de  La  Fayette 34 

{Fi'oni  a  portrait  by  Bouterwek.) 

Madame  Geokfrin 52 

{From  a  painting  by  Staal.) 

Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse CG 

{From  a  painting  by  Carmontelle.) 

Madame  Roland 9't 

{From  a  painting  by  Goupil.) 

Madame  Roland  at  the  Guillotine 160 

{From  a  painting  by  Koyer.) 

Madame  Le  Bkun 176 

{From  the  painting  by  herself.) 

Madame  Le  Bron  and  Her  Daughter 184 

{From  the  painting  by  herself  .) 

Madame  de  Stael 190 

{From  the  pai7>ti7ig  by  Mile.  Qodefroy.', 

Madame  Recamier 236 

{From  a  painting  by  David,  in  the  Louvre.) 

Madame  Valmore 254 

{From,  an  etching  by  Monzies.) 


DAMES   AND   DAUGHTERS   OF 
THE   FRENCH   COURT. 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE. 


Born  at  Bourbilly,  Feb.  5,  1626. 
Died  at  Grignan,  April  18,  1696. 


"  It  is  impossible  to  speak  of  women  without  first  putting 
one's  self  into  a  good  humor  by  the  thought  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne."  —  Sainte  Beuve. 

From  her  Breton  home,  before  ever  she  had 
visited  Provence  and  Grignan  Castle,  Madame  de 
Sevign^  wrote  to  her  daughter,  the  lady  of  the 
castle,  "  I  have  become  quite  at  home  in  Grignan 
Castle.  I  see  your  rooms,  I  walk  on  your  terrace, 
I  go  to  mass  in  your  beautiful  church." 

This  is  not  mere  talk  on  the  part  of  Madame  de 
Sevign^.  She  really  was  at  Grignan,  seeing  its 
rooms,  walking  on  its  terrace,  going  to  mass  in  its 
beautiful  church.  Her  imagination,  more  swift  in 
its  flight  than  hippogrif  or  Pegasus,  had  in  a 
twinkling  carried  her  there. 


2  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE. 

It  is  for  us  who  come  after  Madame  de  Sevign^ 
to  make  ourselves  at  home  at  "  The  Rochers," 
madame's  Breton  castle,  even  as  madame  made  her- 
self at  home  at  Grignan,  to  take  the  journej^  thither 
on  wings  such  as  madame  employed  —  the  wings  of 
imagination. 

The  old  moss-grown  chateau,  breathing  that  air 
of  freshness,  tranquillity,  and  simple  grandeur  which 
characterized  it  in  the  time  of  Madame  de  Sevi^nd, 
is  waiting  for  us  ;  the  park  with  its  long,  shady 
avenues  is  also  waiting ;  and  the  garden  sweet 
with  jasmine  and  orange  flowers.  The  chapel  door 
stands  open,  and  madame  herself,  blonde,  smiling, 
animated,  is  dallying  on  the  slope  of  some  sunny 
terrace,  chatting  with  her  boon  companion,  Pilois, 
the  gardener. 

Near  by  under  the  shade  of  the  beech  trees  two 
abb^s  are  seated,  the  one  a  thrifty  gentleman  en- 
gaged with  counters  and  accounts,  the  other, 
younger  than  the  first,  an  easy-going,  visionary  soul, 
who  leans  back  in  his  arm-chair  with  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  dreaming  idly. 

There  comes  upon  these  two  staid  abbes  an  inter- 
ruption in  the  pleasing  form  of  a  small,  debonair, 
young  gentleman,  dandling  on  silken  hose  and  red- 
heeled  slippers,  a  bundle  of  boolvs  beneath  his  arm. 
He  talks  a  moment  with  the  abb^s,  and  the  one 
looks  up  from  his  accounts  and  the  other  stops  his 
dreaming  to  laugh  at  some  tale  which  the  young- 
man  is  tellinor. 


MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE.  3 

Quickly,  liowever,  the  young  man  turns  from 
the  abb^s  and  leaves  the  shade  of  the  beech  trees 
for  the  sunshine  of  the  terrace. 

''  Mother,  mother  beautiful,"  he  calls,  "  will  you 
not  join  us  ?  We  are  all  impatient  for  the  reading 
and  for  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  little  son,  in  a  moment,"  she 
answers.  Yet  she  tarries  longer  than  a  moment  in 
further  converse  with  the  gardener. 

Madame's  "little  son,"  wlio  is  in  truth  no  less  a 
personage  than  the  Baron  de  Sevign^,  looks  from 
his  mother  to  the  abb(3S,  makes  a  motion  of  comic 
resignation,  and  returns  to  the  shade  of  the  beech 
trees. 

There  Madame  the  Marquise,  bright-eyed  and 
breathless,  at  length  joins  the  abb^s  and  her  son. 
She  is  eloquent  in  the  narration  of  her  news.  Her 
little  trees  are  growing  surprisingly,  she  says ; 
Pilois  and  she  are  raising  their  stately  heads  to  the 
clouds ;  Pilois  and  she  are  planning  to  form  new 
avenues ;  Pilois  and  she  — 

She  can  go  no  further.  Saucily,  jestingly,  the 
young  baron  interrupts  her,  "  Enough  of  Pilois.  I 
grow  jealous  of  Pilois,"  he  declares.  "  He  absorbs 
all  your  time,  all  your  thoughts.  I  think  you 
would  rather  listen  to  his  tales  than  to  any  of 
Molier's  or  La  Fontaine's  that  I  may  read  you." 

Madame  the  Marquise  laughs  gaily,  "  Pilois  is  a 
good  fellow,"  she  returns.  "  'T  is  true  I  enjoy  his 
company  and  prefer   his    conversation   to   that  of 


4  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE. 

many  who  have  the  title  of  chevalier  in  the  parlia- 
ment of  Rennes.  Indeed,  I  am  a  worshipper  of  his 
as  you,  my  son,  are  a  worshipper  of  the  fair  Ninon, 
or  our  mouse  here "  —  designating  the  younger 
abbe  with  a  motion  of  her  hand  —  "  of  some  heav- 
enly vision,  or  the  good  uncle  "  —  with  an  arch 
smile  for  the  elder  abbe  ^  "  of  the  bright  eyes  of 
his  cash-box.  We  must  all  have  our  idols,"  and 
she  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

The  young  baron  and  the  mouse  (La  Mousse 
his  name  is)  laugh  at  madame's  sly  raillery,  but 
the  older  man,  madame's  beloved  "  bien  bon," 
regards  his  niece  with  a  look  more  grave  than 
merry. 

"  We  all  know  that  another  idol  than  Pilois 
reigns  in  our  lady's  heart,"  he  observes. 

At  this  madame  grows  of  a  sudden  very  sad. 
Her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She  raises  her  hand  to 
enjoin  silence. 

"  You  mean  my  daughter,"  she  says.  "  Let  us 
not  speak  of  her." 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence.  Then  it  is  ob- 
served that  Marie,  madame's  French  maid,  is  ap- 
proaching. She  has  crossed  the  court-yard  and  is 
descending  the  sunny  slope  of  the  terrace.  Under 
her  arm  she  carries  a  small,  silken-haired  dog  and  in 
her  hand  an  embroidery  frame. 

She  draws  near  and  seats  herself  at  the  feet  of 
her  mistress.  Madame  takes  from  her  the  embroid- 
ery frame  and   begins   working   on   a  rare  bit  of 


MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE.  6 

tapestry  which,  she  cxphiins,  is  to  serve  as  altar 
cloth  in  her  new  chapel. 

Marie,  a  pretty  piece  of  human  bric-a-l)rac,  frilled, 
capped,  and  aproned  according  to  the  most  ap- 
proved code  of  Parisian  maid  servants,  busies  her- 
self with  the  combing  of  Fidele's,  the  small  dog's, 
silken  coat.  The  young  baron  leans  forward  and 
pulls  Fidele's  tail,  and  rubs  his  nose  and  flicks  his 
ears,  alternately  teasing  and  caressing  him. 

"  Dost  know  thou  art  a  usurper?  "  he  inquires, 
playfully,  of  the  dog.  "  Y'es,  sir,  a  usurper  in  the 
affections  of  your  mistress.  I  might  tell  thee  of 
another  dog  whom  this  faithless  lady  hath  left 
behind  her  in  Paris  and  to  whom  she  hath  solemn- 
ly vowed  that  she  will  love  no  other  dog  but 
him.  And  now  she  hath  forgotten  him  for  thee. 
I  shall  write  and  tell  him  of  her  fickleness  and 
bid  him  go  get  himself  a  new  and  a  more  loyal 
mistress." 

"  Nay,  my  son,  do  not  write  Maphise,  I  entreat 
you,"  pleads  madame.  "  He  will  think  me  a 
coquette,  and  I  mean  not  to  be  a  coquette,  only 
Fidele  hath  besieged  me  with  such  sweet  charms 
that  I  can  no  longer  resist  him.  Scold  me  no 
more,  dear  son.  Read  to  me  instead.  See,  I  am 
waiting  and  the  abb^s,  they  too,  are  waiting,  and 
Marie  and  Fidele.  We  are  all  eager  to  be  amused 
as  you  only  can  amuse  us." 

Thus  implored,  the  young  baron  displays  his 
books.     One  sees  upon  the  covers  such  imposing 


b  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE. 

names  as  Tasso  and  Rabelais,  Corneille  and  Tacitus, 
and  most  conspicuous  of  all,  Molier. 

"Which  shall  it  be?"  he  inquires.  "The 
audience  shall  be  the  choosei-s." 

The  abbes  put  in  a  vote  for  Tacitus  and  Marie's 
glance  favore  Rabelais.  But  the  marquise  shakes 
her  head  in  dissent  to  all. 

"  The  genius  of  our  young  baron  is  best  suited 
to  Molier,"  she  says.  "  He  acts  Molier  so  excel- 
lently that  one  might  easily  mistake  him  for  the 
poet  himself.  Give  us  Tartu ffe,  my  son,  TartufiPe 
to  the  life." 

Thereupon,  the  shady  spot  beneath  the  beech 
trees  becomes  a  playground,  and  the  young  baron 
an  actor,  and  an  enthusiastic  audience  laughs  and 
applauds. 

It  is  thus  that  "  The  Rochers  "  is  waiting  for  us. 
Those  whose  flights  of  fancy  can  carry  them  where 
they  please  should  surely  go  thither.  They  will 
find  themselves  in  an  atmosphere  of  perennial 
pleasantness  and  cheer. 

For  those  who  take  tliis  journey  to  "  The  Roch- 
ers "  an  entertaining  guide  is  to  be  had  in 
the  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  Of  this 
guide,  of  these  letters,  a  great  deal  has  been  said. 
Indeed,  they  have  been  as  much  praised  as 
any  of  the  classics  of  French  literature.  And 
one  does  not  wonder  that  this  should  be  so, 
when  one  discovers  their  immortal  freshness  and 
vivacity. 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE.  7 

Of  all  the  interesting  things  in  the  corre- 
spondence of  Madame  de  Sevign6,  and  there 
are  many,  the  most  interesting  is  the  woman 
herself.  The  smiling,  witty,  loving  marquise 
charms  us  as  she  charmed  the  France  of  Louis 
Fourteenth.  We  want  to  know  all  that  there  is 
to  know  about  her.  We  wish  to  make  her  our 
friend. 

We  learn  that  this  Madame  de  Sevignd  had 
something  of  a  history,  a  history  that  was  both  gay 
and  sorrowful.  She  came  of  an  ancient  Burgun- 
dian  family.  Fierce,  "  fire-eating  "  barons  were  her 
ancestors.  A  fund  of  moss-grown  glory  and  tradi- 
tion was  her  heritage. 

She  was  born  Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal.  Left 
early  an  orphan,  she  was  brought  up  by  her 
maternal  uncle,  the  beloved  "  bien  bon  "  whom  we 
have  seen  living  so  pleasantly  with  her  at  "The 
Rochers,"  her  livelong  friend  and  companion,  the 
Abbe  de  Coulanges. 

The  abba's  home  was  at  Livry,  a  charming  spot 
within  driving  distance  of  Paris.  Here,  in  a 
romantic  old  abbey,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  wood, 
with  the  priest,  her  uncle,  for  guardian,  amid  the 
scent  of  honeysuckle  and  the  songs  of  nightingales, 
Marie's  girlhood  was  passed  ;  here  from  such  learned 
gentlemen  as  Manage  and  Chapelain  she  received 
her  education,  reading  Spanish,  Italian,  and  Latin, 
not  in  translation,  but,  as  she  herself  expressed  it, 
"  in  all  the  majesty  of  the  original  text ;"  and  here, 


8  MADAME  DE   SEVIGNK 

at  length,  brilliant,  impudent,  radiant,  she  bloomed 
into  womanhood. 

It  must  have  been  a  real  delight  to  behold 
Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal,  as  she  was  then  in  all 
the  freshness  and  sparkle  of  young  womanhood,  to 
catch  the  glint  of  her  golden  hair,  the  laughter  of 
what  she  was  pleased  to  term  her  "  ill-matched 
eyes,"  and  to  note  the  lightnings  of  her  ever 
changeful  expression. 

Her  beauty,  it  has  been  said,  was  of  a  sort  to 
defy  the  painter's  art.  It  was  a  thing  indefinite, 
illusive.  Madame  de  La  Fayette's  verbal  portraiture 
is  the  best  likeness  we  have  of  her. 

"  The  brilliancy  of  your  wit,"  wrote  Madame  de 
La  Fayette,  "  gives  such  lustre  to  your  complexion 
and  to  your  eyes  that,  although  wit  would  seem  to 
affect  only  the  ears,  it  is  nevertheless  certain  that 
yours  dazzles  the  eyes.  Those  who  listen  to  you 
no  longer  perceive  that  anything  is  wanting  to  the 
regularity  of  your  features  ;  they  concede  you  the 
most  consummate  beauty  in  the  world." 

Of  course  Marie  had  early  her  admirers,  her 
lovers.  First  of  all  her  tutor,  Menage,  did  his 
utmost  to  evolve,  out  of  the  relations  of  master 
and  pupil,  a  romance.  Marie  laughed  at  him, 
teased  him,  and  when  he  was  angry  won  him  back 
to  good  nature  by  all  the  most  refined  arts  of 
coquetry.  It  was  her  plan,  a  plan  to  which  she 
held  constantly,  to  make  all  men  her  lovers  and 
all  women  her  friends. 


MADAME  BE   SEVIGNE.  9 

Besides  M(3nage,  one  of  Marie's  girlhood  lovers 
was  her  cousin,  Bussy  do  llabutin.  Marie  had 
much  in  common  with  this  I^ussy,  wit,  pride,  and 
ancestry,  and  she  used  playfully  to  refer  to  the 
manifold  tie  that  bound  them  by  the  happy  term 
"  Rabutinage." 

It  is  a  question  whether  or  not  the  cousins  ever 
came  to  any  serious  love-making.  Bussy  pre- 
tended to  be  frightened  by  the  young  Marie's 
"  madcap  "  ways,  as  he  called  them,  and  declared 
tauntingly  that  she  was  "  the  prettiest  woman  in 
the  world  to  be  the  wife  of  another."  Certain  it 
is  that  not  Bussy,  but  a  young  nobleman,  more  bold 
and  handsome  and  witty  even  than  Bussy  himself, 
finally  married  the  "  madcap." 

The  crood  uncle,  who  showed  himself  in  all  else 
so  wise  and  practical  a  guardian,  assuredly  evinced 
a  strange  want  of  foresight  in  his  choice  of  hus- 
band for  his  ward.  But  perhaps  he  could  not  help 
himself  ;  perhaps  his  charming  blonde  niece,  whose 
heart  was  so  passionately  set  on  the  new  suitor, 
cajoled  him  into  giving  his  assent. 

From  a  worldly  point  of  view,  at  least,  the  young 
Marquis  de  Sevigne  was  all  that  was  deemed 
desirable.  Wealth,  rank,  manly  beauty,  fine  clothes, 
agreeable  manners,  were  not  lacking.  Indeed,  so 
well  di-essed  were  his  vices  that  it  is  no  great 
wonder  they  were  mistaken  for  virtues  by  the 
trusting,  generous,  impetuous  young  woman  to 
whom  he  addressed  his  proposals. 


10  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

It  was  at  two  o'clock  of  a  summer  morning  in 
the  year  1644,  at  the  church  of  St.  Gervais  and  St. 
Portals  in  Paris  that  IMarie  de  Rabutin-Chantal 
was  married  to  the  Marquis  de  Sevlgne.  Despite 
the  earllness  of  the  hour  a  long  list  of  titled  per- 
sonages were  present.  They  had  come  to  wish 
the  young  bride  a  joy  that  was  destined  to  be  very 
brief. 

The  marquis  carried  his  marquise  off  to  his 
ancestral  home,  "  The  Rochers."  There  they 
remained  for  a  long  time,  until  their  friends  in  the 
city  were  forced  to  send  them  teasing  madrigals  to 
lure  them  back  to  the  world.  This  may  be 
supposed  to  have  been  a  period  of  happiness  for 
the  young  wife. 

The  world  to  which  Monsieur  the  Marquis  and 
Madame  the  Marquise  at  length  returned  was  a 
gay,  jesting,  infinitely  social  world.  It  was  the 
world  of  Voiture  and  Corneille,  of  Bossuet  and 
Menage,  a  world  that  was  making  literature  a 
power  and  conversation  an  art.  The  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet  over  which  Madame  de  Rambouillet, 
the  incomparable  Athenice,  as  she  was  called, 
reformer  of  morals,  refiner  of  manners,  presided 
was  at  the  height  of  its  splendor.  Here  was  to 
be  met  a  much  admired,  much  respected  company. 

Walckenaer,  Madame  de  Sevigne's  biographer, 
has  given  us  a  picture  of  one  of  the  assemblages 
at  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet.  He  shows  us  the 
ladies,   bright  with  plumes   and  ribbons   and   gay 


MADAME  DE  HEVIGNE.  11 

coloi-s,  smiling,  listening,  suave,  gathered  in  the 
stately,  polished  boudoir  of  the  incomparable 
Athenicc,  and  ranged  round  them  in  bowing,  com- 
plimenting attendance  the  men — abbes,  courtiers, 
wits,  writers,  orators.  Verses  are  read,  criticisms 
are  passed,  the  merits  and  demerits  of  a  certain 
literary  composition  are  minutely  discussed. 
Talent  and  good  taste  rule  the  day. 

Such  was  the  company,  such  the  world  which 
welcomed  the  marquis  and  marquise  back  to 
Paris.  The  young  married  pair  had  not  been  long 
in  the  world  when  a  secret  concerning  them  was 
whispered  about.  It  was  a  tale  of  the  young  mar- 
quis's extravagance  and  infidelity.  Madame, 
whom  every  one  admired,  whom  every  one  adored, 
was  neglected  by  her  husl)and.  He  was  a  spend- 
thrift and  a  libertine.  "  He  loved  everywhere," 
said  Bussy,  "  but  never  anything  so  amiable  as  his 
own  wife." 

The  young  marquis  appears  to  have  been  quite 
without  shame.  He  coolly  informed  his  young 
wife  that  others  might  find  her  charming,  but  he 
did  not.  Bussy  the  unscrupulous  declared  that  to 
madame's  cold  disposition  her  husband  was 
indebted  for  her  loyalty.  It  seems  that  by  some 
evil-minded  persons  it  had  been  supposed  that 
madame's  resentment  of  her  husband's  faithless- 
ness would  make  her  an  easy  prey  to  their  own 
gallantries. 

But  the  marquis  and  Bussy  and  those  other  evil- 


12  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

minded  persons  did  not  know  madame.  Her  good 
sense  and  her  high  estimate  of  virtue  were  beyond 
their  comprehension.  Her  unworthy  husband, 
whom  she  could  no  longer  respect,  but  whom  to 
her  unhappiness  she  still  continued  to  love,  had 
broken  her  heart.  Her  spirit  of  purity  and  integ- 
rity he  had  not  broken.  That  was  hers  to  keep 
always. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  bitterness  and  violated 
love  and  confidence  that  a  new  experience  came  to 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  People  have  wondered  why 
she  should  have  loved  her  daughter  so  passionatel}', 
so  beyond  all  reason.  But  when  we  consider  that 
she  remembered  neither  father  nor  mother, 
that  she  had  no  brothers  or  sistere,  that 
she  had  been  deceived  in  her  husband,  that  all 
the  tenderness  and  devotion  of  her  affectionate  na- 
ture, long  repressed,  was  waiting  for  this  daughter, 
her  passionate,  unreasoning  motherhood  loses 
something  of  its  mystery. 

Madame's  daughter  was  born  at  Paris,  and  a  year 
later  at  "  The  Rochers  "  her  son  was  born.  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis  appears  to  have  regarded  his 
wife's  presence  as  a  reproach  to  his  profligate  be- 
havior and  to  have  kept  her,  therefore,  at  a  distance 
from  him.  Certain  it  is  that  while  he  was  pur- 
suing his  wild  course  at  Paris,  she  was  living  in 
seclusion  at  "  The  Rochers,"  with  her  two  children 
and  her  uncle,  the  Abb^  de  Couianges,  and  her 
beautiful  trees  and  alleys  for  companions. 


MADAME  J)E  SEVIGNK  13 

When  at  lengfth  madame  returned  to  Paris  it 
was  to  face  the  most  tragic  event  of  her  life. 
Shortly  after  her  arrival  her  husband  fought  a  duel 
for  one  of  his  mistresses  and  was  killed  by  his  rival. 
To  lose  her  husband,  whom,  spite  of  his  faithless- 
ness, she  loved,  would  have  been  of  itself  a  blow, 
but  to  lose  him  in  this  humiliating  way  was  indeed 
cruel.  Whatever  madame  suffered,  however,  she 
suffered  under  a  proud  reserve.  Yet  that  her 
anguish  must  have  been  keen  we  realize,  when  we 
learn  that  several  years  after,  upon  seeing  D'Albert, 
the  slayer  of  her  husband,  enter  the  room,  she 
fainted. 

Madame  de  Sevigne  went  back  to  "  The 
Rochers,"  to  the  care  of  her  children,  to  the  guar- 
dianship of  her  uncle.  There  she  lived  quietly  for 
several  years,  paying  her  husband's  debts  and  lift- 
ing herself  gradually  out  of  that  "  abyss,"  as  she 
expresses  it,  into  ivhich  his  fickleness  and  extrava- 
gance had  plunged  her.  As  for  the  man  himself, 
so  earnestly  did  she  endeavor  to  forget  him  that 
never  once  did  she  mention  his  name  to  her 
children. 

She  was  twenty-six  years  of  age  when,  with  for- 
tune and  spirit  restored,  she  reentered  society. 
Mature  in  beauty,  mature  in  wit,  she  was  more 
charming  even  than  in  her  girlhood  days.  She  was 
enthusiastically  received  in  all  the  fashionable 
salons  of  Paris.  The  Abbe  Arnauld  has  given  us 
a  picture  of  madame  as  she  then  was. 


14  MADAME  T)E  SEVIGNA 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  says,  "  that  I  still  see  her 
before  my  eyes  as  she  appeared  to  me  the  first  time 
I  ever  had.  the  honor  of  beholding  her,  when  she 
arrived,  sitting  in  the  depths  of  her  great  chariot, 
that  was  thrown  open  wide.  On  either  side  sat 
the  young  gentleman,  lier  son,  and  the  young  lady, 
her  daughter,  all  three  such  as  those  whom  the 
poets  have  described.  They  recalled  to  me  Latona 
with  the  young  Apollo  and  the  young  Diana,  so 
indescribable  a  charm  radiated  from  all  of  them  — 
from  the  mother  and  the  children." 

Madame  brought  to  the  society  into  which  she 
had  made  so  triumphant  an  entrance  a  happy, 
laughing  philosophy.  She  regarded  her  frivolous 
brothers  and  sisters,  the  reckless  subjects  of  a  reck- 
less monarch,  with  charming  leniency.  She  did 
not  hold  back  her  skirts  when  the  faulty  ones 
approached.  She  gave  them  her  hand  and  smiled 
indulgently  upon  them.  It  was  enough  for  her 
that  she  kept  her  own  self-respect  and  her  own 
good  name.  She  was  not  of  the  paste  of  which  re- 
formers are  made.  She  accepted  the  times  as  they 
were  and  scattered  about  her  an  atmosphere  of 
flowers  and  sunshine. 

Her  friend  Madame  de  La  Fayette  wrote  of  her, 
"  Your  presence  increases  gaiety  ;  for  joy  is  the  true 
element  of  your  soul,  and  unhappiness  more  alien  to 
you  than  to  any  other  person  in  the  world." 

It  was  supposed  by  the  world  in  which  madame 
moved  that,  being  of  so  social  and  agreeable  a  dis- 


MADAME  BE  SEVIGNA  15 

position,  slie  would  inevitably  marry  again.  Many 
attempts  were  made  to  induce  her  to  '^  change  her 
condition."  Conti,  a  prince  of  the  blood,  Turenne, 
a  victorious  general,  Fouquet,  a  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  were  among  her  suitors.  Yet,  spite  of 
the  many  sighs  that  were  spent  upon  her,  madame 
remained  a  widow.  "I  perceive  every  day,"  she 
told  her  daughter,  "  that  the  big  fishes  devour  the 
small  fry."  Her  love  for  her  children,  for  her 
daughter  especially,  so  filled  her  heart  that  there 
Avas  left  no  room  for  any  other  affection. 

To  the  tender  passion,  then,  madame  remained  a 
stranger.  But  what  she  denied  to  love  she  gave 
warml}'-,  generously,  to  friendsliip.  Loyal,  sincere, 
devoted,  she  satisfied,  so  La  Rochefoucauld  de- 
clared, "the  ideas  of  friendship  in  all  its  condi- 
tions and  consequences."  Hers  was  the  sort  of 
friendship  that  adversity  and  ebbing  fortune  can- 
not change.  To  Fouquet  at  the  time  of  his  trial 
and  to  Pomponne  after  his  fall  from  power  she 
was  an  earnest  and  admiring  partisan. 

Madame  herself  used  to  wonder  why  she  was  so 
much  beloved,  why  slie  was  blessed  with  so  many 
friends.  The  answer  was  in  her  own  heart.  She 
received  only  what  she  gave.  The  surest  way  to 
be  loved,  the  wise  man  has  told  us,  is  to  love. 

So  fond  was  madame  of  her  friends,  so  dear  was 
she  to  them,  that  she  is  incomplete  without  them. 
To  know  her  we  must  know  them. 

Her  children  excepted,  no  one  played  so  large  a 


16  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNt. 

part  in  her  life  as  her  cousin  Bussy.  We  have 
seen  that  he  had  been  one  of  her  earliest  admirers  and 
that  he  and  she  were  bound  together  by  that  pretty 
tie  of  "  Rabutinage."  After  her  widowhood,  Bussy 
himself  informs  us,  he  was  the  first  to  speak  to  her 
of  love.  He  was  at  that  time  a  widower  and  free. 
He  admits  that  he  met  with  no  success  in  his  suit 
and  that,  not  being  able  to  obtain  his  own  way,  he 
was  forced  to  content  himself  with  lovinsf  her 
after  her  own  fashion.  What  that  fashion  was 
we  learn  from  his  own  words.  "There  is  hardly 
another  woman  in  the  kingdom,"  he  remarked  sig- 
nificantly, "  Avho  can  reduce  her  lovers  to  friends." 

Bussy  and  madame  were  friends — warm,  true 
friends.  But  they  had  their  falling  out.  Bussy, 
it  seems,  was  above  all  things  vain  and  ambitious. 
He  wished  for  notoriety.  To  obtain  this  notoriety 
he  wrote  a  novel  which  he  called  "Amorous  Cron- 
icle  of  the  Gauls  "  in  which  he  satirized  all  the 
most  conspicuous  men  and  women  in  society.  His 
book  was  very  outrageous,  but  very  amusing.  It 
won  for  itself  many  readers  and  for  its  author 
many  enemies.  In  consequence  of  it.  Monsieur 
Bussy  was  imprisoned  in  the  Bastile  for  thirteen 
months  and  then  exiled  to  his  Burgundian  estates 
for  seventeen  years.  Notoriety  he  had  obtained, 
but  at  a  severe  sacrifice. 

Madame,  of  course,  was  very  angry  when  she  saw 
herself  included  in  the  "Amorous  Cronicle."  "  If 
horns  had  started  from  my  head  I  could  not  have 


MADAME  BE  SEVIGnS.  17 

been  more  amazed,"  she  told  him.  "  I  read  and 
reread  that  cruel  portrait.  To  iind  one's  self  in 
print,  the  laughing  stock  of  the  Provinces,  to  be 
on  every  book-shelf,  in  every  one's  hands ;  to 
receive  this  cruel  pain  and  from  whom  ?  " 

Her  "  pain,"  her  indignation,  made  Bussy  very 
repentant.  He  sought  earnestly  to  repair  the 
injury  that  he  had  done.  Let  us  read  in  his  own 
words  the  story  of  his  expiation  and  of  madame's 
forgiveness.  It  happened  at  the  time  of  the  trial 
of  Fouquet,  that  former  lover  of  madame,  in  whose 
defence  she  was  so  eloquent  and  to  whom  she 
referred  as  "  our  dear  unfortunate." 

"I  shall  never  blame  myself  enough,"  wrote 
Bussy,  "  for  having  offended  the  prettiest  woman 
in  France,  my  near  relative,  whom  I  had  always 
loved  and  whose  friendship  I  never  had  reason  to 
doubt.  It  is  a  stain  on  my  life  that  I  tried,  indeed, 
to  obliterate  when  the  surintendant  (Fouquet)  was 
arrested,  by  loudly  taking  the  part  of  the  marquise 
against  those  who  had  confounded  her  with  the 
mistresses  of  the  minister.  Not  onl}^  generosity,  but 
truth,  impelled  me  to  act  in  this  way.  Before  em- 
barking on  the  marquise's  defence  I  consulted 
Tellier,  who,  except  the  king,  alone  had  seen  the 
letters  in  Fouquet's  casket.  He  told  me  that 
those  written  by  the  marquise  were  the  letters  of  a 
friend  of  no  little  wit,  and  that  they  had  delighted 
the  king  far  more  than  all  the  sentimental  nullities 
of  the  rest.     The  surintendant  had  been  greatly 


18  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

to  blame  when  he  mixed  up  friendship  with  so 
much  lovemaking.  The  marquise  was  much 
pleased  by  my  defence.  Her  kind  heart  and  her 
near  relationship  both  caused  her  to  forgive  me  and 
since  that  time  (which  also  was  that  of  my  dis- 
grace) her  affection  for  me  rekindled ;  and  except 
for  some  explanations  and  some  little  reproaches 
which  a  painful  remembrance  di-ew  from  her,  there 
are  no  marks  of  friendship  which  I  have  not 
received  from  her  since  then,  nor  of  gratitude  that 
I  have  not  tried  to  show  and  that  I  shall  not  owe 
lier  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  We  resumed  our 
friendship  in  the  first  year  of  my  exile." 

Bussy  was  disappointed  in  his  hopes,  exiled,  and 
disgraced.  In  his  loneliness  madame's  letters, 
sparkling  with  wit,  glowing  with  loyal,  generous 
friendship,  must  have  been  one  of  his  chief  com- 
forts. 

Of  madame's  friends  surely  there  was  no  one  so 
important,  so  conspicuous  as  Bussy.  But  she  had 
other  friends  whom  she  loved  more  dearly  and  with 
whom  she  was  more  intimate  and  more  free  spoken. 
Chief  among  these  were  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
and  the  Duke  La  Rochefoucauld,  and  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Coulanges. 

There  could  be  no  greater  contrast  than  that 
which  existed  between  these  two  pairs  of  friends 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne.  Madame  La  Fayette  and 
the  duke,  delicate  in  health,  weary  of  the  world, 
lived    a    quiet,   reflective    life.      She    wrote    her 


MADAMfJ  I)E  SKVIONA  19 

romiuices  and  lie  liis  maxims.  Each  was  devoted 
to  tlie  other ;  both  were  thoughtful,  serious,  grave. 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Coulanges  were  the 
other  extreme.  They  were  all  life  and  wit  and 
animation.  They  had  no  love  for  each  other,  only 
a  calm,  forbearing  consideration.  They  were 
always  in  society,  always  laughing,  always  chat- 
ting, scattering  epigrams,  clever  sayings,  and 
repartees  wherever  they  went.  Truly  it  was  a 
triumph  for  Madame  de  Sevigne  to  have  won  the 
love  of  people  of  such  different  natures  as  these 
two  pairs  of  friends.  It  was  a  proof  of  the 
breadth  and  versatility  of  her  own  soul. 

Madame's  friends  were  very  near  and  dear  to 
lier  —  they  formed  a  large  part  of  her  existence. 
But  her  children,  more  especially  her  daughter, 
were  her  life,  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  air  she 
breathed. 

It  has  been  said  that  madame's  gifts  of  mind 
were  divided  and  distributed  between  her  children. 
The  son  was  charming,  but  lacked  stability.  The 
daughter  had  intellect,  but  "  there  was  a  heaviness 
about  her." 

Of  the  two,  the  son  appears  to  have  been  the 
more  lovable.  We  are  inclined  to  quarrel  a  little 
with  the  mother  for  preferring  the  daughter  to 
him.  Since  she  was  so  unjust  as  to  have  a  favorite 
child,  why  was  she  not  more  reasonable  in  her 
injustice,  we  inquire.  Why  did  she  not  choose 
her  son  ?    He  was  agreeable,  winning,  affectionate, 


20  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

a  most  unselfish  son  and  brother.  He  was  a  little 
wild,  to  be  sure.  But  his  faults  were  of  the  time, 
rather  than  of  his  own  inclination.  And  then  he 
was  such  a  charming  penitent,  was  so  good  natured 
and  humble  and  witty  under  admonishment.  We 
are  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  that  his  mother's 
scoldings  of  him  generally  ended  in  a  burst  of 
laughter. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  her  amiable  son,  but  her 
phlegmatic  daughter,  whom  madame  loved  best. 
It  is  difficult  for  us  to  like  this  daughter.  She 
was  so  uncommunicative,  so  lukewarm,  so  calmly 
philosophical,  so  very  different  from  her  mother. 
When  madame  spoke  or  wrote  she  "  opened  the 
flood  gates."  Her  thoughts  and  her  feelings 
rushed  forth  impetuously  for  expression.  Made- 
moiselle was  timid,  diffident,  haughty,  far  removed 
from  her  mother's  tolerance  and  sweet  self-forget- 
fulness.  Bussy  said  of  the  young  lady,  "  This 
woman  has  wit,  but  a  tart  wit,  alloyed  with  intoler- 
able vanity.  She  will  make  as  many  enemies  as 
her  mother  has  made  friends  and  adorers." 

Spite  of  mademoiselle's  asperity  and  pride,  how- 
ever, she  was  her  mother's  darling.  Madame's 
love  for  her  daughter  was  a  passion,  a  religion. 
Arnault  d'Audilly  called  the  mother  "a  pretty 
pagan."  Madame  herself  said  of  her  love,  "  It  is 
a  constant  devotion.  It  is  what  one  ought  to 
render  to  God." 

In  the  world  in  which  madame  lived,  a  frivolous, 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNA  21 

volatile  world  that  made  passions  of  whims,  whims 
of  passions,  this  sweet,  tender,  overwhelming  mother- 
love  was  regarded  as  an  anomaly.  People  could 
hardly  believe  it  genuine.  They  spent  nmch  time 
discussing  it,  wondering  about  it.  At  length 
Monsieur  de  Pomponne  solved  the  riddle  of  it. 
There  was  played  at  court  a  game  which  was 
called  "  Le  Revers  de  la  Medaille,"  the  reverse 
side  of  the  cards.  It  consisted  in  guessing  at  the 
realities  that  lie  beneath  the  semblances.  "Madame 
de  Sevigne  seems  to  love  her  daughter  passionately," 
he  said.  '^  Do  you  want  to  know  what  is  on  the 
face  of  the  card  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  Why  this  — 
She  loves  her  passionately. "" 

Of  madame's  praises  of  her  daughter  we  grow 
a  trifle  weary.  It  is  somewhat  of  a  task  to  have 
to  agree  with  compliments  with  which  we  are 
expected  to  agree.  But  for  the  great  mother-love 
we  are  all  sympathy.  It  is  something  that  appeals 
deeply,  keenly,  to  every  one  of  us  who  has  ever 
loved. 

Madame's  love  for  her  daughter  was  the  ground 
on  which  she  took  her  stand  in  tlie  world.  To 
bring  out  this  daughter,  to  see  her  shine,  was 
madame's  one  desire.  Mademoiselle  de  Sevigne 
was  very  beautiful.  She  was  of  a  more  regular, 
colder  type  than  her  mother.  She  danced  admir- 
ably and  figured  in  the  royal  ballet  with  the  charm- 
ing young  duchess  of  Orleans  (whose  tragic  fate 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  has  touchingly  recorded)  ; 


22  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNE. 

with  Mademoiselle  de  Saint-Simon  (the  fair  sister 
of  the  court  historian)  ;  with  the  lovely  Louise  de 
la  Valliere  (that  sweet  sinner  and  penitent) ; 
and  with  Mademoiselle  de  Mortemar  (who  soon 
after  became  Madame  de  Montespan,  the  Cleopatra 
of  King  Louis's  reign). 

Racine,  Boileau,  and  Fontaine,  we  are  told, 
composed  many  madrigals  in  honor  of  Mademoi- 
selle de  Sevign^.  She  was  hailed  nymph  and 
shepherdess  and,  in  echo  of  her  mother,  "the  prettiest 
girl  in  France."  At  length,  in  1669,  Monsieur  de 
Grignan  won  her  in  marriage  and  bore  her  off  to 
Provence,  where  in  great  state  he  ruled  as  governor 
of  the  jDrovince. 

With  the  departure  of  Madame  de  Grignan  to 
Provence  dates  the  period  of  our  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  Madame  de  Sevigne.  The  adoring 
mother  is  separated  from  her  darling.  She  is 
lonely  and  sad.  Her  one  consolation  is  in  writing 
to  this  daughter,  in  pouring  out  her  heart  on  paper. 
Her  letters  become  "  torrents,"  she  says,  torrents 
that  she  cannot  "keep  back."  Previous  to  this 
date  madame  has  written  letters  to  3ussy  and  to 
otlier  of  her  friends.  These  letters  have  shown 
her  to  be  a  woman  of  wit  and  taste  and  feeling. 
But  now  in  this  correspondence  with  her  daughter 
we  are  to  find  the  spark  of  genius.  Madame 
now  writes  without  restraint,  without  traditional 
method.  Her  own  fancy  is  her  guide.  Her  thoughts 
and   feelings   flow   impulsively,   intuitively.     She 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGN^.  23 

scatters  coloi-s,  images,  impressions.  "  Tier  pen," 
as  she  expresses  it,  "lias  always  the  reins  on  its 
neck."  The  secret  is  a  soul  has  entered  into  her 
correspondence,  the  soul  of  a  profound,  yearning 
mother-love.  It  is  the  spring  from  which  her 
talent  gushes  forth  ever  fresh,  clear,  and  sparkling. 

It  is  thus  she  writes  after  the  first  cruel  parting, 
"Every  thought  stabs  me  with  grief.  Nothing 
distracts  me.  I  am  always  with  you.  I  see  the 
coach  always  advancing,  but  never  approaching.  I 
am  always  on  the  highroad,  and  sometimes  feel 
almost  afraid  lest  the  coach  upset.  I  have  a  map 
before  my  eyes  and  know  every  place  where  you 
stop  over  night.  Do  write  me  about  your  trip  by 
boat.  Alas  !  how  dear  and  precious  to  me  is  that 
little  vehicle  the  Rhone  hurries  so  cruelly  from  me  ! 
Ah,  my  dear,  how  I  long  just  to  see  you,  to  hear 
you,  to  embrace  you,  merely  to  see  you  pass  by,  if 
the  rest  is  too  much   to  ask.     .     .     .  Unable 

to  keep  back  my  thoughts  of  you,  I  have 
begun  to  write  to  you,  seated  at  the  end  of  that  little 
shady  walk  you  love,  on  the  mossy  seat  where  I 
have  seen  you  lying.  But,  Heavens  !  where  have 
I  not  seen  you  here  I  And  how  all  these  thoughts 
pierce  m.y  heart !  I  see  you ;  you  are  present  to 
me.  I  think  and  think  again  of  it  all.  My  wits 
are  in  a  whirl.  But  in  vain  I  turn  about,  in  vain 
I  search ;  the  dear  child  I  love  so  passionately  is 
two  hundred  leagues  away." 

It  was  for  the  entertainment  of  "  the  dear  child  " 


24  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNA 

that  madame  composed  her  letters.  To  amuse  this 
far-away  daughter  she  related  bits  of  gossip, 
humorous  stories,  pictured  the  gay  tinsel  existence 
at  Versailles  and  the  quiet,  retired  life  at  "  The 
Rochers,"  told  of  the  books  she  was  reading,  the 
thoughts  she  was  thinking.  Her  letters  are  talks. 
They  embody  in  perfection  the  spirit  of  French  lit- 
erature which  was  a  genius  for  society  and  conver- 
sation. Very  amusing  are  letters  such  as  those 
which  announce  the  engagement  of  the  romantic 
Grande  Mademoiselle  to  a  man  without  fortune, 
rank,  or  w^ortli,  the  dismissal  of  madame's  faithful 
servant  Picard,  who  refused  to  make  hay,  a  piece  of 
absence  of  mind  on  the  part  of  Brancas,  the  most 
absent-minded  of  men,  and  a  trick  played  by  the  king 
upon  his  devoted  old  courtier  the  Marechal  de 
Grammont.  And  very  affecting  are  those  letters 
of  another  sort  which  describe  the  sorrow  of  the 
Marechal  upon  the  death  of  his  son,  and  of  the 
Duchess  de  Longueville  upon  the  death  of  her  son, 
and  despair  of  Vatel,  the  prince's  cook,  who  killed 
himself  in  shame  because  the  fish  that  were 
expected  did  not  arrive  on  time.  And  very  elo- 
quent are  the  letters  written  upon  the  deaths  of 
Turenne  and  Luvoise.  All  of  these  letters  glow  and 
pulsate  with  life.  They  transport  us  to  Paris  and 
Versailles,  make  us  contemporaries  of  the  Grand 
Monarch  and  his  subjects,  sharers  of  their  joys  and 
sorrows. 

It   is  of   the   court   and  its  people,  of   the  gos- 


MADAME  I)E  SEVWNE.  25 

sip  and  stories  told  uLout  tliein,  tliat  madame's 
correspondence  has  principally  to  do.  But  though 
she  was  primarily  a  painter  of  society  she  could 
represent  nature  as  well. 

Madame  was  of  an  adaptable  disposition,  as 
much  at  home  in  the  woods  and  meadows  of  "  The 
Rochers  "  as  in  any  Parisian  salon.  She  wrote  of 
spending  the  afternoon  in  the  fields  "conversing 
with  the  cows  and  sheep."  She  knew  the  birds 
intimately,  and  corrected  her  daughter's  superficial 
acquaintance  with  them.  "Where  do  you  find 
that  nightingales  are  heard  on  the  thirteenth  of 
June  ?  Ah,  they  are  too  busy  then  caring  for  their 
little  households.  They  no  longer  think  of  singing 
or  of  making  love;  they  have  more  serious  business." 
She  mourned  the  felling  of  a  tree  as  the  loss  of  a 
friend.  When  her  son  caused  a  portion  of  the 
ancestral  woods  to  be  cut  down  in  order  to  raise 
money  to  meet  some  foolish  expenses,  she  was 
greatly  grieved  and  wrote  plaintively  of  the  out- 
cast crows  and  owls,  wood  gods  and  dryads,  who 
made  complaints  to  her  and  touched  her  very 
heart.  With  infinite  skill  she  celebrates  "the 
triumph  of  the  month  of  May  when  the  nightin- 
gale, the  cuckoo,  and  the  linnet  open  the  spring- 
time in  our  forests."  She  makes  us  enjoy  with 
her  "  those  fuie,  crystalline  days  of  autumn  which 
are  no  longer  warm  and  yet  not  cold."  And  she 
does  not  neglect  winter,  but  appreciatively  relates 
its  charms  when  the  trees  are  adorned  with  pearls 


26  MADAME  BE  SEVIGNK 

and  crystals.  She  observed  the  various  stages  of 
spring  so  carefully,  the  gradual  transitions  and 
shadings  of  the  leaves  on  hornbeams,  beech,  and 
oak  trees,  as  they  passed  from  red  to  green  that 
she  at  length  declared,  "  At  a  pinch  I  don't  know 
but  that  I  could  make  a  spring  myself." 

Madame  had  a  genius  for  society,  and  an  intel- 
ligent love  of  nature.  She  possessed  also  energy 
and  originality  of  mind.  She  was  not  carried  away 
by  the  excesses  of  the  time.  In  politics  she  showed 
a  degree  of  independence.  She  admired  the  king, 
but  believed  him  human,  and  saw  the  folly  of  un- 
due flattery  of  him.  "  I  am  told,"  she  writes,  "  that 
the  Minin  monks  in  dedicating  a  thesis  to  the  king 
have  compared  him  to  God,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  it  plain  that  God  is  but  a  copy.  Too  much, 
too  much."  And  again,  "  Wliat  will  courtiers  ]iot 
do  to  please  their  masters  ?  "  she  demands.  "  Do 
they  reckon  health,  pleasure,  property,  life  itself, 
of  any  moment  compared  with  obeying  and  pleas- 
ing him  ?  If  such  were  our  feelings  toward  God 
what  saints  we  would  be  !  " 

In  religion  she  was  not  wholly  pious  like  her 
friends  at  Port  Royal,  nor  altogether  frivolous 
like  her  acquaintances  at  court.  She  had  both 
worldliness  and  other-worldliness.  She  was  the 
means  between  the  two  extremes.  Her  belief  was 
in  a  providential  fatalism.  "  To  my  mind,"  she 
writes,  "the  author  of  the  universe  must  be  the 
cause  of  all   that  happens.     When  I  must  needs 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGN&.  27 

blame  Him  I  blame  no  one  and  snbmit.  It  was  de- 
creed thattbcre  sbould  be  a  Madame  de  Sevign6  lov- 
ing ber  daugliter  more  than  any  otlicr  mother  loves 
hers,  that  she  should  be  separated  from  this 
daughter,  and  that  the  keenest  sufferings  she 
should  experience  in  life  should  be  occasioned  by 
this  dear  child."  And  in  the  same  vein,  referring  to 
the  death  of  Monsieur  de  Turenne,  she  says  :  "  For 
myself,  who  see  Providence  in  all  things,  I  see  that 
cannon  loaded  from  all  eternity.  I  see  everything 
leading  Monsieur  de  Turenne  to  its  mouth,  and  I 
find  nothing  hurtful  in  all  this,  supposing  his  con- 
science to  be  in  good  condition.  What  would  he 
have  ?  He  dies  in  his  glory ;  his  reputation  could 
gain  nothing  more.  In  that  moment  he  enjoyed 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  enemies  retreat  —  of 
reaping  the  fruit  of  his  three  months'  endeavore. 
Sometimes  in  the  coui-se  of  a  long  life  the  star 
grows  dim." 

On  the  mystery  of  life  and  death  she  passed  many 
grave  reflections.  "  As  for  my  life,  you  know  it," 
she  declares.  "  I  spend  it  with  five  or  six  friends 
whose  society  is  pleasant  to  me,  and  in  the  per- 
formance of  a  thousand  necessary  duties  —  no  light 
affair.  But  what  troubles  me  is  that  nothing  is  ac- 
complished day  by  day,  and  life  is  made  up  of  days, 
and  we  grow  old  and  we  die.  This,  I  think,  is 
veiy  sad."  And  again,  "  Alas,  how  death  goes  up 
and  down,  striking  on  every  side !  "  she  exclaims. 
"I  find   myself   bound   by   an    awkward    engage- 


28  MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE. 

ment.  Launched  into  life  without  my  consent,  I 
must  leave  it ;  this  overwhelms  me.  And  how 
shall  I  leave  it?  Whither?  By  what  door? 
When  will  it  be  ?  With  what  preparation  ?  How 
shall  I  stand  with  God?  What  shall  I  have  to 
offer  him?  What  can  I  hope  for?  Am  I  worthy 
of  heaven  ?  Do  I  deserve  hell  ?  What  an  alter- 
native !  What  a  perplexity  !  I  might  better  have 
died  in  the  arms  of  my  nurse." 

There  are  no  wiser,  pleasanter  reflections  upon 
old  age  than  hers.  "  Providence,"  she  writes,  "  leads 
us  with  so  much  goodness  through  the  different 
stages  of  our  life  that  we  hardly  are  conscious  as 
they  pass  by.  The  change  is  effected  with  such 
gentleness  that  it  is  imperceptible.  It  is  the  hand 
on  the  dial,  which  we  do  not  see  moving.  If  at 
twenty  they  were  to  show  us  in  a  looking-glass 
the  countenance  wliich  we  have  or  should  have  at 
sixty,  comparing  it  with  that  of  twenty,  we  should 
be  quite  overcome  and  horrified  at  that  face  ;  but  it 
is  unnoticeably  that  we  grow  older.  To-day  we 
are  as  we  were  yesterday,  and  to-morrow  as  to-day  ; 
and  thus  we  go  on  without  feeling  the  change,  and 
this  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  that  Providence  that  I 
adore."  And  in  continuation  of  this  same  theme, 
"You  know,"  she  says,  "that  I  never  could  en- 
dure that  old  people  should  say,  '  I  am  too  old  to 
correct  myself.'  I  could  more  easily  forgive  the 
young  folks  in  saying,  '  We  are  too  young.'  Youth 
is  so  attractive  that  we  could  only  adore  it  if  the 


MADAME  BE  SEVIGNA  29 

soul  lUid  the  mind  were  as  perfect  as  the  body  ; 
but  when  one  is  no  longer  young,  then  it  is  that  one 
must  try  to  perfect  one's  self  and  try  to  make  up  in 
good  qualities  what  one  has  lost  in  the  agreeable 
ones.  For  this  reason,  every  day  I  mean  to  im- 
prove in  soul,  in  mind,  in  sentiment." 

Reverie  played  a  large  part  in  Madame  de 
Sevign^'s  life.  And  so,  too,  did  reading.  She  was 
always,  as  she  herself  declared,  "a  devourer  of 
books."  She  read  everj^thing  from  Rabelais,  who 
made  her  "  die  of  laughing,"  to  Nicole  who  made 
her  "quake  with  fear."  She  was  desirous  that 
her  grandson  should  develoi^  a  taste  for  reading, 
and  lamented  that  his  young  blood  made  "  such  a 
din "  that  he  did  not  hear  her  wishes.  And 
when  she  learned  that  Pauline,  her  granddaughter, 
was  fond  of  books  she  was  delighted.  "She  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  tedium  and  idleness,  two  hor- 
rid pests,"  she  wrote. 

We  would  expect  of  a  woman  like  madame,  one 
who  thought  so  deeply  and  so  broadly  and  who 
read  so  widely,  that  she  would  rise  above  the  pre- 
judices of  her  time.  Therefore  we  are  shocked  at 
the  lightness  with  which  she  describes  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  poor  peasants  of  Brittany  who,  driven 
by  the  tyranny  of  their  duke  to  rebel  against  him, 
are  conquered  by  armed  force  and  cruel  executions. 
We  are  disturbed,  too,  by  the  wealmess  of  the  re- 
monstrance that  escapes  her  when  she  learns  that 
her  little  granddaughter  D'Adh^mar  is  to  be  sacri- 


30  MADAME  DE   SEVIGNE. 

ficed,  immured  for  life  with  all  her  pretty  hopes 
and  passions  in  a  convent.  We  look  for  a  genuine 
protest,  a  righteous  indignation  on  the  part  of  the 
kind-hearted  marquise.  But  we  are  disappointed. 
Madame's  fault  was  a  too  easy  acceptance  of 
the  wrongs  of  the  times.  She  who  was  so  sweet, 
so  charming,  so  sensible,  was  not  perfect.  We 
regret  the  little  that  was  lacking  to  make  her 
ideal  and  mourn  her  failing  as  that  of  a  dear 
friend. 

Madame  was  over-indulgent.  Yet  she  could 
resent,  she  could  denounce.  And,  when  at  length 
her  voice  is  raised  in  censure,  it  rings  very  true 
and  clear  and  forceful.  Madame  was  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  extravagance  of  the  age  in  which  she 
lived.  She  was  not  of  the  class  which  believed 
that  to  keep  a  strict  account  of  expenses  was 
beneath  one's  dignity  and  honor.  In  her  economies 
madame  was  a  plebian.  She  declared  vehemently 
against  the  reckless  living  of  her  daughter  and 
son-in-law.  She  accused  them  of  being  "two 
spendthrifts,  the  one  demanding,  the  other  approv- 
ing everything."  She  complained  bitterly  of  the 
"  cruel  and  continual  cheer  of  Grignan "  and 
prophesied  that  the  fabric  of  which  their  glory 
was  constructed  would  prove  illusive  and  dissolve 
at  a  touch. 

The  Grignans,  however,  gave  no  heed  to  her 
words  of  wise  protest.  Their  castle  remained  "  an 
inn"  where  eighty  to  a  hundred  guests  were  con- 


MADAME   l)E  SEVIGNt.  31 

stantly  entertained  and  where  the  gaming  table 
forever  made  and  unmade  fortunes. 

Madame's  daughter  and  son-in-law  ■were  but 
living  the  life  of  the  rest  of  the  aristocracy  of  the 
day.  The  whole  court  was  on  the  brink  of  bank- 
ruptcy. In  vain  daughters  were  cloistered  and  the 
portions  of  the  younger  sons  appropriated.  The 
nobility  was  without  money,  without  resources. 
Their  only  refuge  was  the  bounty  of  the  king. 
Like  Bussy  they  "  embraced  liis  knees "  in  the 
hope  that  finall}-  tliey  might  '"•  reach  his  purse." 
In  the  words  of  Madame  de  Sevigne,  they  "  paid 
court  to  him "  on  the  chance  that "  some  drop- 
pings might  fall  upon  them." 

Madame,  of  course,  despite  her  disapproval, 
helped  the  Grignans  generously.  She  gave  also 
to  her  son,  for  whom  a  commission  in  the  army 
must  be  purchased  and  those  luxuries  furnished 
which  were  incumbent  on  his  state.  On  her 
children's  account  madame  was  near  to  ruin.  But 
her  own  thrift  and  the  ability  of  the  good  uncle, 
who  was  her  steward,  preserved  her.  She  retired 
to  "  The  Rochers "  and  lived  there  sparingly, 
savingly.  At  length  by  slow  degrees  her  fortune 
was  reinstated. 

Meanwhile  the  young,  radiant  Latona,  whom 
we  saw  riding  with  her  two  beautiful  children  in  a 
coach  drawn  by  prancing  horses,  was  gone.  In 
her  place  there  had  come  a  stately,  white-haired, 
frugal  lady.     There   may  have  been  wrinkles    on 


32  MADAME  DE   SEVIGNE. 

this  lady's  countenance.  There  were  none  in  her 
heart.  She  was  as  charming,  kind,  and  generous 
as  that  Latona  had  been. 

Her  house  in  Paris,  the  Hotel  Carnavalet,  where 
for  so  many  years  she  had  entertained  and  had 
written  her  immortal  letters,  was  closed.  Madame's 
last  years  were  spent  amidst  the  tranquil,  serene 
beauty  of  "  The  Rochers."  Pier  son,  always  sweet 
tempered  and  genial,  a  better  son,  perhaps,  than 
madame  deserved,  since  she  so  infinitely  preferred 
her  daughter,  was  with  her.  By  now  he  was  "  a 
gray-bearded  ensign "  and  had  brought  with  him 
to  "The  Rochers"  a  delicate,  fragile  little  wife  of 
whom  the  elder  marquise  came  to  be  very  fond. 

At  length  our  Madame  de  Sevigne  looked  for  the 
last  time,  not  knowing  it,  upon  her  beloved  trees 
and  wallvs  and  terraces,  and  the  moss-grown 
chateau  in  which  so  much  of  her  life  had  been 
passed.  She  left  the  rugged  north  behind  her  and 
descended  into  the  sunshine  of  tlie  south,  a  sun- 
shine that  was  the  more  glowing  because  of  the 
dear  daughter  who  dwelt  therein.  Let  us  leave 
her  at  her  journey's  end,  smiling  and  contented, 
amid  the  olives  and  orange  groves,  with  her  daugh- 
ter's hand  in  hers. 


DE  LA  FAYETTE  . 


MADAME    DE    LA    FAYETTE. 
From  a  portrait  by  Bouterwek. 


MADAME  DE  LA  EAYETTE. 


Born  in  Paris  in  March,  1634. 
Died  in  I'liriB  on  May  25, 1693. 


•'  The  most  intellectual  woman  and  the  best  female  writer  in 
France."  —  Boileau. 

Opposite  the  Petit  Luxembourg  in  the  Rue  de 
Vaugirard  stood  the  home  of  Madame  de  La 
Fayette.  It  was  a  fine  house  with  a  pleasant  gar- 
den attached.  Many  were  the  ilhistrious  persons, 
■\\'eary  of  the  frivolities  of  court  and  with  a  taste 
for  letters  and  serious  conversation,  who  rejDaired 
thither.  It  was  a  relief,  they  said,  to  escape  from 
the  whirlpool  a  moment  and  to  recover  their  breath 
and  draw  new  life  and  inspiration  in  the  serene 
atmosphere  of  madame's  drawing-room. 

Now  it  was  Segrais,  the  poet  wit,  who  presented 
himself ;  there  was  manuscript  beneath  his  arm  — 
he  had  come,  like  as  not,  to  ask  madame's  opinion 
on  a  story  of  his  or  to  help  in  the  construction  of 
a  story  of  hers.  And  now  it  was  La  Fontaine  ;  he 
had  written,  perhaps,  some  verses  and  wished  to 
inscribe  them  to  madame.  Sometimes  the  Cardinal 
de  Retz  was  a  visitor,  and  sometimes  the  Prince  de 
Conde.  Madame  de  Maintenon,  before  the  days 
of  her  elevation,  was  a  near  neighbor  of  Madame 

33 


34  MADAME  DE  LA    FAYETTE. 

de  La  Fayette  and  came  often  to  see  her ;  she  had 
always  some  just  and  sage  remark  at  her  tongue's 
end.  Madame  de  Coulanges  came,  too,  and  no  one 
in  all  the  little  cdterie  was  so  vivacious,  so  volatile 
as  she.  But  the  one  who  was  most  welcome  and 
most  loved,  she  of  the  sunny  countenance,  affec- 
tionate greeting,  and  witty  story,  was  she  whom  we 
immediately  recognize  as  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

Madame  de  La  Fayette,  a  tall,  frail  figure,  som- 
brely and  yet  richly  dressed,  a  pensive,  gentle, 
calmlj-  judicious  presence,  received  her  friends 
with  that  blending  of  candor  and  reserve  which 
was  her  distinguishing  trait.  With  her,  at  her 
side,  there  was  alwaj'S  a  certain  notable  gentleman. 
He  was  no  longer  young,  and  gout  pinned  him  to 
a  chair,  but  his  face  while  sad  and  cynical  was 
supremely  noble.  This  gentleman  was  famed 
throughout  France  as  the  Duke  de  la  Rochefou- 
cauld. 

The  world,  which  was  never  known  to  spare 
anybody,  had  not  spared  Madame  de  La  Fayette. 
It  criticised  her  for  many  things.  It  declared  that 
she  was  notional,  that  her  many  illnesses  were 
imaginary  rather  than  real.  It  had  much  to  say  in 
ridicule  of  the  lace  curtains  with  which  she  adorned 
her  bed.  But  most  of  all  it  busied  itself  in  gossip 
about  her  friendship  with  the  Duke  de  la  Roche- 
foucauld. 

Was  it  friendship,  or  was  it  love,  every  one  in- 
quired.    "  The  fear  of   the  Lord  on   the   part   of 


MADAME   DE  LA   FAYETTE.  35 

both  and  perliaps  also  policy  have  clipped  Cupid's 
wings,"  one  reflective  woman  determined.  The 
too  suspicions  Bnssy  shook  his  head:  "I  main- 
tain that  there  is  love  between  them,"  he  as- 
serted. 

To  this  medley  of  opinion  Madame  de  Sevigne 
hastened,  eager  to  defend.  She  interposed  words 
of  earnest  faith  and  admiration,  spoke  feelingly  of 
the  charm  of  their  friendship,  their  "  delicious  com- 
munions," and  their  confidence  in  each  other. 
"  Such  a  tie,"  she  concluded,  "  seems  to  me  stronger 
than  any  passion." 

Posterity  has  decided  upon  the  intimacy  between 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  and  the  duke,  and  has 
decided  with  Madame  de  Sevigne.  This  intimacy, 
every  one  now  agrees,  was  friendship,  an  ideal 
friendship,  legitimate,  earnest,  steadfast.  It  had  all 
the  tenderness,  all  the  softness,  all  the  warmth  of 
love,  and  the  calm,  clear  strength  of  an  intellec- 
tual alliance.  In  truth,  it  was  a  romance,  a 
romance  without  storms,  wholesome  and  serene, 
and  one  quite  befitting  the  life  of  so  sweet  and 
rational  a  woman  as  Madame  de  La  Fayette. 

It  was  a  late  romance.  Madame,  its  heroine, 
was  a  mature,  a  sane,  an  eminently  serious  woman. 
She  had  almost  forgotten  the  playtime  of  her  early 
youth.  But  Madame  de  Sevigne,  her  friend,  had 
not  forgotten  and  delighted  to  recall  it.  "  Despite 
her  discretion,  we  laughed  and  had  our  frolics," 
she  declared. 


36  MADAME  DE  LA   FAYETTE. 

So  it  was,  Madame  cle  La  Fayette  had  had  her  frol- 
ics. Before  the  days  of  her  madameship,  when  she 
was  known  as  Mile.  Marie  Madeleine  Pioche  de  la 
Vergne,  she  had  been  gay  and  girlish,  but  always 
in  a  very  gentle  way.  "  That  old  Menage,"  she 
had  called  Menage,  her  tutor,  and  he  in  turn  had 
punned  on  her  name  and  designated  her  "  Laverna," 
which  in  Latin  is  to  say  "  the  thief."  It  was  his 
heart  that  she  had  stolen.  The  amorous  pedant 
made  it  a  point  to  fall  in  love  with  the  prettiest 
and  brightest  of  his  pupils  —  first  with  the  witty, 
teasing,  fair-haired  Marie  de  Rabutin  Chantal,  and 
six  years  later  with  this  other  Marie  who,  if  not  so 
sparkling  as  her  predecessor,  was  of  a  more  poetic, 
delicate  turn  of  mind.  "  Spirituelle,"  the  Abbe 
Costar  called  her.  "  Tout  lumineuse,  tout  pre- 
cieuse,"  the  poet  Scarron  said  of  her. 

Of  course  she  proved  a  brilliant  scholar.  Her 
father,  who  was  field-marshal  and  governor  of  Havre, 
was  proud  of  her  and  engaged  the  best  masters  to 
come  and  teach  her.  Menage  and  Father  Rapin 
together  developed  her  young  mind.  She  soon 
caught  up  with  them  in  learning.  One  day  when 
they  were  discussing  as  to  the  correct  translation 
of  a  certain  passage,  she  came  forward,  very 
modestly  we  may  be  sure,  and  said,  "  You  are  both 
wrong,"  and  with  that  she  herself  read  the  passage 
as  it  should  be  read.  The  masters  had  to  confess 
themselves  vanquished,  and  by  a  girl.  It  was 
poetry,  we  are  told,  that  she  interpreted  so  glibly. 


MADAME   OR  LA    FAYETTE.  37 

With  Cicero  she  would  have  naught  to  do.  Virgil 
and  Horace  were  her  idols,  and  it  was  to  them  she 
gave  her  thoughts.  It  was  the  poets  whom  she 
loved  and  undei-stood  so  perfectly. 

Mademoiselle  was  learned,  but  she  did  not  desire 
to  be  so  considered.  She  was  well  aware  of  the 
ill  favor  that  attaches  to  "  blue  stockings,"  and 
she  wisely  avoided  it.  When  questioned  outside 
the  scliool-room  as  to  the  meaning  of  an  iambus 
she  trippingly  replied  that  it  was  the  opposite  of  a 
trochee.  And  no  one,  save  her  masters  and  her 
friends,  guessed  at  the  wealth  of  knowledge  which 
her  light  manner  hid. 

Thus  her  school-days  passed  pleasantly.  When 
she  was  fifteen,  however,  her  father  died  and  her 
mother,  who,  though  a  good  woman,  was  frivolous 
and  gay,  very  soon  married  again.  Mademoiselle's 
step-father,  to  whom  it  has  been  stated  she  did  not 
take  very  kindly,  was  the  Chevalier  Renand  de 
Sevigne,  uncle  of  that  young  Marquis  de  Sevigne 
who  had  recently  taken  as  wife  the  sunny,  impul- 
sive, light-hearted  Mademoiselle  de  Rabutin  Chan- 
tal.  And  so  it  was  that  these  two  women,  destined 
to  play  parts  graceful  and  important  in  their 
country's  history,  met  for  the  first  time. 

Together  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vergne  and  the 
young  Marquise  de  Sevigne  frequented  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet.  They  were  to  be  seen  there  often 
seated  side  by  side.  They  were  one  in  their 
admiration  of  Corneille  and  in  their  dislike  of  all 


38  MADAME  DE  LA  FAYETTE. 

that  savored  of  the  pedantic  and  affected.  They 
were  not  of  those  "Femmes  Savantes,"  at  whom 
Moliere  aftenvards  aimed  his  darts.  Tlieir  sense 
of  humor  and  their  knowledge  of  tlie  fitness  of 
tilings  preserved  them  from  ridicule.  From  the 
Hotel  de  Rambouillet  they  took  away  with  them 
what  was  best  of  its  spirit,  and  left  behind  all  that 
was  false  and  foolish. 

It  was  not  long  after  her  meeting  with  Madame 
de  Sevigne  that  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vergne 
became  the  wife  of  the  Compte  de  La  Fayette.  Of 
the  Compte  little  is  known.  He  appears  to  have 
effaced  himself  almost  completely.  It  is  related  of 
him  only  that  he  married  and  died  young,  leaving 
his  wife  with  twg^ons  and  the  name  which  she  was 
to  render  famous. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  concerning  madame's 
husband  that  he  was  the  brother  of  the  beautiful 
Louise  de  La  Fayette  whom  Louis  XIII.  had 
loved  and  whom  the  cloister  held  as  Mere  Angel- 
ique.  Madame  de  La  Fayette  went  often  to  visit 
her  sister-in-law  at  the  convent  and  there,  for  the 
first  time,  she  saw  Princess  Henrietta  of  England 
and  there  her  friendship  with  the  princess  began. 
Later,  when  the  princess  married  the  Ijrother  of 
the  king  of  France  and  under  the  official  title 
"  Madame  "  became  a  central  figure  in  the  court 
circle,  Madame  de  La  Fayette  was  summoned  to 
her  side.  The  princess  was  deeply  attached  to  her 
and  could  not  get  on  without  her  ;  Madame  de  La 


MADAME  DE  LA   FAYETTE.  39 

Fayette  herself  could  not  understand  wherefore, 
and  finally  decided  that  it  could  only  be  by  chance 
that  she  who  was  of  so  grave  a  nature  should  please 
so  young  and  frivolous  a  woman  as  Madame. 

Madame  lived  a  life  of  romantic  adventure  and 
intrigue.  She  confided  all  her  secrets  to  Madame 
de  La  Fayette,  and  at  her  request  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  confided  them  to  paper.  The  result  was  a 
charming  book  of  Memoirs.  Thanks  to  the  gentle, 
loving  pen  of  the  writer,  the  youthful  indiscretions 
and  errors  of  the  princess  are  softened  and  the 
princess  herself,  who  "knew  not  the  meaning  of  the 
word  rancor,"  shines  forth  in  the  true  light  of 
her  sweet,  winning,  unselfish  personality.  The 
little  volume  ends  suddenly  and  sadly  with  a 
death-bed  scene.  As  we  read,  we  seem  to  see  the 
author's  tears  staining  the  pages.  31adame  died  in 
Madame  de  La  Fayette's  arms.  Her  death  was  a 
sorrow  for  which  Madame  de  La  Fayette  never  con- 
soled herself.  She  said  that  it  cast  a  shadow  over 
the  rest  of  her  life.  On  the  third  anniversary  of 
Madavie'a  death  she  wrote  to  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
"  I  reread  some  of  her  letters  yesterday.  My  heart 
is  full  of  her." 

During  the  years  that  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
moved  at  court  Louis  was  at  the  height  of  his  pros- 
perity. She  was  surrounded  by  successful  authors, 
victorious  generals,  and  a  smiling,  polished  gallan- 
try. She  kept  in  the  background,  however,  look- 
ing on  rather  than    taking  any  active  part.     She 


40  MADAME  I)E  LA    FAYETTE. 

was  withal  something  of  a  critic,  and  even  ventr 
ured  to  write  a  satire  on  the  fashionable  jargon  of 
the  day.  One  fancies  her  a  woman,  still  young 
and  of  an  attractive  personality,  attending  Madarnes 
parties  at  Fontainebleau  and  St.  Cloud,  observing 
all  that  went  on  about  her  and  making  mental 
notes  which  were  to  stand  her  in  good  stead  when 
she  came  to  write  the  romances  of  her  later  years. 
She  spoke  seldom,  but  alwa3"s  to  the  point.  Her 
word  carried  weight  with  it  and  even  was  regarded 
as  a  kind  of  ultimate  authority. 

When  Madame  died,  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
retired  from  court.  She  was  sad  for  the  loss  of  her 
friend  and  her  health  was  beginning  to  fail. 
Moreover,  her  natural  inclination  was  for  society 
of  a  more  serious  and  more  literary  caste.  She 
occasionally  frequented  the  salon  of  the  Grande 
Mademoiselle  and  that  of  Madame  de  Sable  at 
Port  Royal.  She  is  represented  as  one  of  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Chamber  of  the  Sublime."  She 
is  pictured  as  seated  beside  Madame  Thianges 
reading  verses  while  Bossuet  and  the  Duke  de  la 
Rochefoucauld,  the  Duke  de  Maine  and  ^Monsieur 
de  Marsiallac  in  another  part  of  the  room  read 
more  verses,  and  Despereaux  with  a  pickaxe  holds 
at  bay  seven  or  eight  bad  poets  and  Racine,  safely 
installed  at  his  side,  beckons  to  La  Fontaine  to 
join  them.  The  poets  of  her  own  day  to'  whom  her 
tastes  and  talents  were  allied  were  appreciated  in  a 
measure  by  Madame  de  La  Fayette.     She  was  on 


MADAME  JJE  LA   FAYETTE.  41 

friendly  terms  with  Moliere,  Eoileau,  and  J>a  Fon- 
taine. But  ever  faithful  to  the  author  of  the  "  Cid," 
she  retained  for  him  her  chief  allegiance. 

Madame  de  La  Fayette  herself  began  to  write  at 
an  early  date.  She  wrote  merely  for  her  own 
pleasure  and  because  she  could  not  help  doing  so. 
Authoresses  were  not  in  favor  then.  Women  were 
told  that  they  should  inspire,  l)ut  must  not  write. 
Madame,  therefore,  took  into  her  literary  confidence 
only  a  few  of  her  most  faithful  and  most  indulgent 
friends.  Segrais  was  at  first  her  chief  adviser. 
He  helped  her  in  the  arrangement  of  her  plots  and 
in  her  methods  of  construction.  He  even  lent  his 
name  to  "  Zayde,"  her  first  real  work,  which  ap- 
peared at  the  close  of  1670.  People  were  easily 
deceived  into  believing  him  the  author.  The  story 
closely  resembled  his  work,  still  retaining  much  of 
the  exaggerated,  romanesque  style.  But  here  and 
there  were  touches,  delicate,  subtle,  true  to  life, 
which  gave  promise  of  the  dawning  of  a  new  star 
in  the  literary  firmament  and  of  the  new  era  which 
this  star  was  to  introduce. 

At  the  time  of  the  publication  of  "  Zayde," 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  and  the  Duke  de  La 
Rochefoucauld  had  for  five  years  been  united  in 
that  peculiar  tie  which  bound  them  so  hapj)ily  and 
so  indissoiubly  together,  and  which  gave  the 
world  so  much  to  talk  about.  Theirs  was  not  one 
of  those  affections  which  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
has  somewhere   defined    as    "  the    passions    which 


42  MADAME  DE  LA   FAYETTE. 

snatch  us  irresistibly  from  ourselves."  Rather  it 
was  the  kind  conscious  of  itself,  slower  and  more 
sure.  When  for  the  first  time  they  met  each  other 
in  Madame  de  Sable's  salon,  the  duke  was  a  man 
fifty  years  old.  He  had  passed  through  all  manner 
of  romantic  experiences  and  situations,  yet  had 
never  been,  Madame  de  Sevigne  tells  us,  what  may 
be  truly  called  "  a  lover."  "  Love,"  he  declared, 
with  his  cold,  cynical  smile,  "  is  nowhere  but  in 
novels."  He  saw  Madame  de  La  Fayette.  He 
talked  with  her.  She  was,  it  is  true,  still  young 
in  yeai-s,  about  thirty,  but  there  was  maturity  and 
womanly  wisdom  in  her  soul.  He  admired  the 
justice  of  her  mind,  the  sincerity  of  her  nature. 
Segrais  had  praised  her  candor  and  had  related  as 
an  instance  of  it  that  she  never  concealed  her  age, 
but  told  freely  in  what  year  she  was  born.  La 
Rochefoucauld,  in  his  turn,  admired  that  candor. 
He  said  in  praise  of  Madame  de  La  Fayette  that 
she  was  "genuine."  It  was  the  word  that  best 
described  her.  Madame  de  La  Fayette,  on  her 
part,  we  may  imagine,  was  flattered  when  she  per- 
ceived the  impression  she  was  making  on  so  distin- 
guished and  important  a  man  as  the  duke.  She 
divined  too  his  noble  nature.  She  saw  that  he  was 
something  beyond  the  misanthrope,  the  author  of 
the  "Maxims."  She  longed  to  sweeten  his 
thoughts,  to  lead  his  perverted  nature  back  to  its 
original  clear  channels.  Thus  it  was  that  their 
friendship  came  about  gradually  and  deliberately. 


MADAME  J)K  LA   FAYETTE.  43 

It  Avas  at  first  a  matter  of  intellect,  but  at  length 
heart  entered  in  and  it  became  that  something  deli- 
cate, romantic  ideal  which  one  finds  so  indefinable. 

It  is  through  the  letters  of  Madame  de  Sevigne 
that  we  catch  glimpses  of  the  quiet  monotony,  the 
mutual  sympathy  of  the  daily  lives  of  these  two 
friends.  It  is  true  that  the  pervading  atmosphere 
of  their  existence  is  one  of  cloud  rather  than  of 
sunshine.  The  duke  is  crippled  with  his  gout  and 
madame's  fever  is  constantly  overtaking  her. 
"  We  have  conversations  so  sad,"  says  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  "  that  it  seems  as  if  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  bury  us."  But  the  garden  close  at  hand 
is  full  of  the  sweetest  perfumes.  Sometimes,  when 
health  and  spirits  are  at  their  best,  the  dining-hall 
is  merry  with  guests.  Now  and  then,  even,  there 
is  a  jaunt  to  the  opera,  and  Lulli's  "  Cadmus " 
moves  not  only  the  impulsive  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
but  even  the  reserved  Madame  de  La  Fayette  to 
tears.  Another  time  it  is  the  "  Poetique  "  of  Des- 
pereaux  that  snatches  them  from  themselves.  We 
even  find  mention  of  a  sojourn  to  the  court  where 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  with  some  other  ladies 
drives  in  the  king's  calash  and  is  shown  the  sights 
of  Versailles  and  delights  his  majesty  with  her 
judicious  praise. 

All  this,  however,  is  but  the  occasional.  There 
are  other  times,  unfortunately  more  frequent,  when 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  is  too  ill  to  see  her  friends. 
She  is  utterly  weary,  tired  even  of  saying  "good 


44  MADAME  DE  LA   FAYETTE. 

morning"  and  "good  evening."  Then  she  escapes 
to  the  country,  and  Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  her 
absence,  finds  a  deserted  garden  and  a  duke 
incredibly  sad.  The  flowers  still  bloom ;  they 
have  the  sunshine  and  the  fresh  air  to  cheer  them. 
But  the  "  friend  of  her  soul  "  can  find  no  comfort 
in  a  life  from  which  she  has  departed. 

Gourville,  the  servant  of  the  duke,  was  jealous 
of  Madame  de  La  Fayette  and  used  to  say  that  she 
had  taken  entire  possession  of  his  master.  Madame 
de  La  Fayette  had  a  gentle  but  commanding  way 
and  it  may  be  that  Gourville  was  right.  It  was  a 
willing,  a  happy  and  beneficial  thraldom,  however. 
One  scarcely  recognizes  in  the  friend  of  Madame 
de  La  Fayette  the  cynical  author  of  the  "  Maxims." 
Madame  de  Sevigne  tells  us  of  his  "soul  unsurpassed 
for  fortitude,  wisdom,  kindness,  and  strength,"  and 
says  that  he  is  a  patriarch  and  knows  almost  as 
well  as  herself  "  a  mother's  tenderness."  He  sends 
pretty  little  compliments  to  her  daughter.  He  is 
kinder  in  his  manner,  less  bitter  in  his  speech.  One 
detects  the  influence  of  Madame  de  La  Fayette. 
Where  there  was  once  a  belief  in  universal  corrup- 
tion there  is  now  forbearance,  even  a  mild  hopeful- 
ness. That  was  true  which  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
herself  said :  "  He  stimulated  my  intellect,  but  I 
reformed  his  heart." 

Together  madame  and  the  duke,  alike  ill  and 
sad,  talked  and  wrote  and  received  their  friends. 
Moreover,  madame,  who  numbered  among  her  ac- 


MADAME  DE  LA   FAYETTE.  45 

complishments  an  understanding  of  jurisprudence, 
managed  the  affairs  of  the  duke  and  restored  his 
fallen  fortunes.  Then,  too,  being  a  close  friend  of 
the  Duchess  of  Savoy,  madaine  acted  as  a  sort 
of  secret  agent  for  the  duchess.  Her  parlor  be- 
came, for  the  affairs  of  Savoy,  something  like  a 
private  bureau.  Madame  heard  everything,  saw 
everything,  advised  and  planned  and  managed, 
was  indeed  the  skilled  and  helpful  diplomat  to 
perfection. 

In  the  midst  of  a  life  so  full,  so  occupied,  Mad- 
ame de  La  Fayette  found  little  time  for  the  letter 
writing  which  she  hated.  "  If  I  had  a  lover  who 
wished  to  hear  from  me  every  day,"  she  said,  "  I 
should  break  with  him.'"  Her  poor  correspondence 
was  the  one  complaint  which  Madame  de  Sevigne 
raised  against  her.  We  know  the  protesting  letters 
of  the  impetuous  marquise.  To  them  Madame  de 
La  Fayette  at  length  replied  in  a  tone  gentle  and 
soothingly  affectionate:  "Now,  my  dear,  why  are 
you  screaming  like  an  eagle  ?  Do  not  measure  our 
friendsliip  by  our  letters.  I  shall  love  you  as  much 
in  writing  only  a  page  in  a  month  as  you  in  writing 
ten  in  eight  days." 

This  was  true,  and  Madame  de  Sevign^  knew 
that  it  was.  Indeed  she  had  never  really  doubted 
Madame  de  La  Fayette.  The  two  understood  each 
other  perfectly.  "There  was  never,"  Madame  de 
Sevigne  herself  declared,  "  the  slightest  cloud  on 
our  friendship." 


46  MADA3IE  DE  LA   FAYETTE. 

The  same  could  not  be  said  of  Madame  de  La 
Fayette's  friendship  with  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
Here  bitterness  crept  in  and  a  close  attachment  of 
many  years  ended  in  disagreement  and  coolness. 
Both  were  judicious,  intellectual,  and  candid,  both 
hated  pretension  and  admired  simplicity  and  ear- 
nestness. They  had  much  in  common.  Each 
praised  the  other  for  her  uniform  bearing.  And 
yet  it  was  this  same  simplicity,  candor,  and  uni- 
form bearing  in  Madame  de  La  Fayette  which,  it 
has  been  hinted,  offended  Madame  de  Maintenon 
when  she  became  the  wife  of  the  king  of  France. 
Madame  de  Maintenon's  ideas,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
changed  with  her  condition.  No  doubt  she  desired 
from  Madame  de  La  Fayette  a  greater  consideration 
because  of  her  own  acquired  state.  This,  of  course, 
Madame  de  La  Fayette,  the  straightforward,  never 
gave  her.  They  went  their  different  ways.  Mean- 
while it  was  not  in  the  ante-chamber  of  Madame 
de  Maintenon  that  polite  manners  found  their  best 
expression;  there  reform  went  too  far,  and  auster- 
ity carried  the  day.  Rather  it  was  the  salon  of 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  that  saw  the  most  satisfying 
triumphs  of  society  and  conversation. 

Madame  de  La  Fayette  maintained  her  uniform 
bearing.  She  flattered  no  one.  She  wrote  few 
letters.  She  made  few  visits.  Yet  she  won  and 
kept  many  friends.  "  No  one,"  Madame  de  Sevign^ 
said,  "  accomplished  so  much  without  leaving  her 
place.     She  has  a  hundred  arms,"  continued  her 


MADAME  BE  LA    FAYETTE.  47 

enthusiastic  friend;  "they  reach  everywhere." 
What  was  the  charm,  one  asks.  It  was  of  intrinsic 
worth.  Madame  de  T^a  Payette,  to  use  La  Roche- 
foucauld's word  for  her  once  more,  was  "  genuine," 
and  she  was  sane  and  just.  People  said  of  her 
that  her  judgment  was  superior  to  her  intelligence, 
and  it  was  the  compliment  that  pleased  her  best. 
She  was  quiet,  almost  languid  in  her  manner.  It 
was  a  theory  of  hers  that  people  should  live  with- 
out ambitions  and  without  passions  :  "  It  is  enough 
simply  to  exist,"  she  said.  Yet,  one  was  conscious 
always  of  a  reserve  force,  and  of  a  delicate  sensi- 
bility as  well.  She  who  was  so  calm,  so  reticent, 
it  is  known,  shed  tears  over  Lulli's  Cadmus,  avoided 
good-byes  between  herself  and  Madame  de  Sevign^ 
because  of  the  pain  they  caused  her,  and  at  the 
hint  of  any  danger  to  the  duke  was  instantly 
alarmed  and  tearful.  Thus  it  was  that  her  charac- 
ter was  one  of  strength  and  her  feelings  of  tender- 
ness ;  and  for  both  she  was  loved.  Moreover,  the 
refinement  of  her  thought  as  expressed  in  her 
speech  was  an  additional  attraction.  Her  compari- 
son of  poor  translators  to  the  lacqueys  who  stupidly 
bungle  and  distort  the  compliments  with  which 
they  have  been  entrusted  by  their  mistresses  is  one 
of  the  many  true  and  striking  remarks  for  which 
madame  was  distinguished  and  which  lingered  long 
afterwards  in  the  memory  of  her  listeners. 

Such  was  Madame  de  La  Fayette's  charm,  a  seri- 
ous rather  than  a  ga}'  one.     And  so  it  was  felt  to 


l/- 


48  MADAME  BE  LA  FAYETTE. 

be  by  her  friends.  While  othere  were  known  as 
«  The  Sunbeam,"  "  The  Rainbow,"  and  "  The  Leaf," 
she  was  "  The  Mist."  She  lingered  on  the  heights 
and  one  could  onl}^  faintly  see  the  blue  be3'ond  and 
the  sunshine  peeping  through.  The  blue  was  always 
pale,  the  sunshine  veiled.  Hers  was  not  a  nature 
of  brilliancy,  light,  and  color,  but  of  soft,  subtle 
shades.  Yet  there  was  a  restfulness  about  her, 
a  peace  and  comfort  which  the  more  gaudy  and 
more  dazzling  ladies  could  not  bestow.  So  thought 
the  duke. 

It  was  when  the  friendship  between  Madame  de 
La  Faj-ette  and  the  duke  was  at  its  height  that 
"  The  Princess  de  Cleves  "  was  written.  Together 
the  two  friends  sat  and  dreamed  and  planned. 
Madame  wrote,  and  the  duke,  whose  literary  taste 
was  excellent,  revised  and  approved.  Thus  em- 
ployed, the  houi-s  passed  pleasantl}-.  The  world  of 
fact,  of  sickness,  age,  and  sad  experience  was  for- 
gotten. Together  the  two  friends  entered  the  realm 
of  youth  and  poetry  and  romance.  In  the  heroine 
Madame  de  la  Fayette's  own  early,  sweet  imaginings 
were  pictured,  and  in  Monsieur  de  Nemours  the 
duke  saw  himself  as  he  had  been  in  youth,  only 
idealized  and  uncontaminated  by  contact  with  the 
baser  elements  of  life.  That  mild,  equable  light 
which  arose  from  their  own  tranquil  love  suffused 
the  characters  of  their  creation.  The  atmosphere  of 
the  book  was  one  of  sentiment,  true,  pure,  and 
simple  sentiment,  touched  with  reality.     The  spirit 


MADAME  BE  LA   FAYETTE.  49 

of  their  own  happy,  soul-communings  had  entered 
in.  As  they  approached  the  end,  the  tone  grew  grave 
and  sombre.  The  close  was  one  of  renunciation 
and  triumphant  sacrifice.  It  was  as  if  they  felt 
only  too  keenly  the  brevity  of  life  and  the  nearness 
of  that  inevitable  separation  which  fate  held  in  store 
for  them. 

The  book  was  completed  and  appeared  in  the 
spring  of  1678.  Immediately  the  princess  became 
the  person  most  talked  of.  Her  name  was  on  every- 
body's lips.  People  stopped  one  another  in  the 
Tuileries  to  inquire  about  her.  She  was  read  and 
read  again,  and  yet  again.  And  she  was  criticised 
and  she  was  dramatized.  Indeed,  she  was  quite  the 
event  of  the  season. 

The  authorship  of  the  book  was  veiled.  Segrais, 
the  Duke  de  La  Rochefoucauld,  Madame  de  La  Fay- 
ette, no  one  of  them  would  acknowledge  it.  "  The 
book  is  an  orphan,"  wrote  Madame  de  Scudery,  "  dis- 
owned both  by  father  and  mother."  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  even  went  so  far  as  to  write  critically  and 
quite  impersonally  of  it.  "As  for  myself,  I  am  flat- 
tered at  being  suspected  of  it,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  I 
should  acknowledge  the  book  if  I  were  assured  that 
the  author  would  never  appear  to  claim  it.  I  find  it 
very  agreeable  and  well-written  without  being 
excessively  polished,  full  of  things  of  admirable 
delicacy  which  should  be  read  more  than  -once ;  above 
all,  it  seems  to  be  a  perfect  presentation  of  the 
world  of  the  court  and  the  manner  of  living  there. 


50  MADAME  BE  LA   FAYETTE. 

It  is  not  romantic  or  ambitious ;  indeed  it  is  not  a 
romance ;  properly  speaking  it  is  a  book  of  memoirs, 
and  that  I  am  told  was  its  title,  but  it  is  changed. 
Voila,  my  judgment  upon  Madame  de  Cleves." 

Proof  is  not  wanting,  however,  to  show  that  the 
book  is  the  work  of  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
"  assisted  by  the  taste  "  of  Monsieur  de  La  Roche- 
foucauld. It  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the  novel. 
In  place  of  the  stilted  and  impossible,  it  substi- 
tuted the  easy  and  the  natural.  Adventures  in  it 
were  few.  The  story  depended  for  its  interest  on 
the  analysis  of  character  and  of  motive.  It  was 
narrated  simply,  delicately,  quietly.  One  lingered 
over  its  pages  in  pensive,  happy  mood,  even  as  the 
lovers  of  whom  it  told  lingered  along  the  banks  of 
"  the  brook  bordered  by  willows."  Its  characters 
were  of  the  Court  of  Henry  II.,  but  they  were  very 
like  the  characters  of  the  Court  of  Princess 
Henrietta,  whom  Madame  de  La  Fayette  had 
known  and  studied.  There  was  present  the  same 
grace,  the  same  gallantry  and  lightness,  the  same 
France.  Its  chami  was  its  freshness,  its  purity,  its 
truth,  the  qualities  that  live.  And  so,  quite 
modestly,  without  flourish  of  trumpet  or  call  to 
arms,  it  took  its  place  among  French  classics. 

The  romance  completed,  the  pen  laid  aside, 
Madame  de  La  Fayette  and  the  duke  rested  and 
watched  the  effect  of  the  little  volume.  Its  suc- 
cess was  the  closing  happiness  of  a  life  together 
that  had  held  much  of  happiness.     For   the   last 


MADAME  BE  LA   FAYETTE.  51 

time  the  two  friends  read  and  conversed  together 
and  saw  in  each  other's  eyes  that  mutual  under- 
standino;  and  tenderness  that  was  so  dear  to  both. 
Then  the  duke  died. 

"  Madame  de  La  Fayette  has  fallen  from  the 
clouds,"  wrote  Madame  de  Sevigne.  "  There  is 
comfort  for  all  others,  but  none  for  her."  In  vain 
the  poor  lady  sought  to  interest  herself  in  new 
schemes,  in  the  enlargement  of  her  house.  She 
found  only  that  her  loneliness  increased.  She  tried 
to  console  herself  with  the  friends  that  remained  to 
her.  But  these  had  divided  interests.  Nowhere 
could  she  find  that  constant  thought,  that  absolute 
aiiection  which  she  had  always  received  from  the 
duke.  She  could  not,  as  Madame  de  Sevigne 
declared,  "  so  close  up  her  ranks  as  to  fill  the 
vacant  place."  There  was  left  only  God  and 
death. 

Madame  de  La  Fayette  turned  her  thoughts  to 
Heaven,  not  with  the  exaltation  of  a  religieuse, — 
"  divine  reason  "  was  still  her  guide, —  but  with 
resignation  and  hope.  Her  life  had  been  quiet  yet 
full,  she  thought.  She  had  little  to  regret,  much 
to  be  thankful  for.  And  thus,  with  sweet  sanity, 
patient  and  gentle  to  the  end,  she  died. 


MADAME   GEOFFRIN. 


Born  in  Paris,  1699. 

])ied  in  Paris,  Oct.  6, 1777. 


' '  Madame  Geoffrin  is  an  extraordinary  woman  with  more  com- 
mon sense  than  I  almost  ever  met  with."  —  Horace  Walpole, 

She  is  a  unique  figure,  this  Madame  Geoffrin. 
The  memoirs  of  the  seventeenth  century  show  her 
to  us  an  elderly,  sensible,  proper  sort  of  person. 
We  think  that  we  are  not  going  to  like  her,  that 
we  are  going  to  find  her  stupid  and  commonplace. 
We  end  by  discovering  her  to  be  a  woman  of 
remarkable  power  and  charm,  and  by  liking  her  as 
we  would  like  an  affectionate  school-ma'am  or  an 
indulgent  stepmother. 

It  is  thus  that  the  society  of  her  time  knew  and 
admired  her.  The  men  and  women  who  came  to 
see  her  at  her  house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Honore,  who 
courted  her  patronage,  who  submitted  themselves 
to  her  empire,  were  her  boys  and  girls,  her  school- 
children, her  sons  and  daughters.  They  called  her 
mamma,  and  took  her  scoldings  gracefully  as 
obedient  children  should ;  or,  if  they  were  not  in 
the  mood  for  scoldings,  they  ran  away,  played 
truant,  yet  returned  inevitably  to  the  maternal 
knee.     They  begged  to  be  scolded  again,  having 

52 


MADAME   GEOFFRIN. 
From  a  painting  by  Staal. 


MADAME  GEOFFRIN.  53 

found  lier  frowns  more  necessary  than  the  smiles 
of  the  rest  of  the  woiid.  They  were  attracted, 
too,  by  those  sugar-plums  which  slie  bestowed  at 
intervals,  sugar-plums  in  the  shape  of  life  annuities. 
They  were  tied,  so  to  speak,  to  her  apron.  Slie  had 
them  in  leading  strings. 

It  is  as  a  mamma,  a  schoolmistress,  a  mature 
and  motherly  soul,  that  Madame  Geoffrin  seems  to 
have  made  her  first  appearance  in  the  world.  One 
remembered  her  always  with  silvery  hair,  her  cap 
tied  under  her  chin,  a  bit  of  exquisite  lace  about 
her  throat,  and  wearing  soft,  silky  gowns  of  sombre 
shade.  She  never  endeavored  like  some  women, 
it  is  said,  to  appear  younger  than  she  was.  She 
dressed  not  for  "yesterday's  age,"  but  for  "to- 
morrow's." This  added  to  her  natural  air  of  dig- 
nity and  quiet  elegance. 

There  was,  however,  a  prehistoric  period  of 
youth  to  which  Madame  Geoffrin's  own  mind 
occasionally  reverted.  She  spoke  of  it  briefly  to 
her  friends.  She  was  of  bourgeois  birth,  she  said. 
Her  father  had  been  a  valet  de  chamhre.  She 
could  remember  neither  father  nor  mother.  Her 
grandmother,  a  sensible  old  lad}'^,  whom  she  herself 
seems  to  have  resembled  greatly,  brought  her  up. 
She  was  taught  to  read,  to  reason,  and  to  judge 
men  and  women  fairly.  Thus  her  education  was 
devoted  not  to  book  learning,  but  to  the  art 
called  savoir  vivre,  the  art  of  living  properly. 
"  Knowledge,"  said  her  grandmother,  "  never  made 


54  MADAME  GEOFFRIN. 

a  foolish  woman  wise."  One  could  get  on  without 
knowledge  if  one  had  only  tact  and  address. 
Grandmother  herself  travelled  successfully  through 
the  world  on  the  strength  of  these  two  qualities. 
She  could  talk  most  entertainingly  of  things  of 
which  she  knew  little  or  nothing.  When  caught 
in  a  blunder,  she  extricated  herself  so  prettily  that 
one  liked  her  the  better  for  it.  She  cultivated  the 
heart,  the  judgment,  the  taste  of  her  little  grand- 
daughter, and  let  mere  intellect  take  care  of  itself. 
The  education  of  Madame  Geoffrin  was  just  such  a 
one  as,  knowing  her,  we  should  have  supposed  it 
to  have  been. 

When  Madame  Geoffrin,  then  Marie  Th^rese 
Rodet,  was  fourteen  years  old,  she  married  a  gen- 
tleman much  older  than  herself  and  very  wealthy, 
Monsieur  Pierre  Francois  Geoffrin.  He,  too,  was 
of  the  bourgeois  class,  a  lieutenant  of  the  National 
Guard,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  glass  manufacture. 
He  was  of  the  chimney-corner  variety  of  gentle- 
man —  quiet,  unobtrusive,  stupid.  He  sat  silent  at 
madame's  table  full  of  guests.  At  length  he  was 
seen  no  more.  Some  one  inquired  of  Madame 
Geoffrin,  "  What  has  become  of  that  old  gentleman 
who  always  was  present  at  your  dinners  ?  "  "  It 
was  my  husband,"  she  answered.  "  He  is  dead." 
Outwardly,  then,  it  would  seem  monsieur  played 
no  part  in  madame's  career.  In  private,  how- 
ever, their  married  life  was  similar  to  that  of 
many  bourgeois  couples,  humdrum  but  stormless. 


MADAME  GEOFFIUN.  65 

Madame  was  spared  the  domestic  complications 
and  disasters  that  so  often  were  the  portion  of  the 
women  of  the  noble  class. 

It  was  to  lier  hnsband  that  Madame  Geoffrin 
was  indebted  for  the  instrument  of  her  power.  lie 
furnislied  tlic  means  tliat  were  essential.  Having 
the  means,  she  herself  established  the  "  institution," 
for  so  her  salon  was  called.  She  filled  her  house 
with  beautiful  pictures  and  statuary  ;  she  provided 
her  table  with  the  choicest  and  most  delicious  of 
good  things.  This  she  did  with  refined  and 
delicate  taste,  without  ostentation  or  vulgarity. 
She  opened  her  doors  to  savants,  philosophers, 
artists,  litterateurs,  brilliant  women,  and  laughing 
girls.  She,  a  plain,  plebeian  woman,  received  these 
chosen  spirits  of  her  age  with  a  manner  that  was  at 
the  same  time  respectful  and  pleasantl}'-  familiar. 
She  depreciated  herself,  but  allowed  none  of  her 
guests  to  depreciate  her.  She  was  modest,  and  she 
was  also  dignified.  Thus  her  address  was  perfect. 
With  such  taste,  such  address,  and  added  to  these 
infinite  social  talent,  she  was  what  has  been  fitly 
termed  a  "  minister  of  society,"  a  "  civilizer." 

Her  salon  was,  Sainte  Beuve  informs  us,  the 
most  complete,  the  best  managed,  the  best  ap- 
pointed. It  was,  moreover,  the  most  important. 
She  who  had  neither  youth,  beauty,  nor  education 
to  recommend  her  was  the  chief  of  the  salonists. 

We  first  hear  of  her  as  coming  into  prominence 
in  1748.     Then  she  was  on  the  eve  of  her  fiftieth 


56  MADAME  GEOFFEIN. 

birthday.  From  that  time  on,  over  a  period  of  twen- 
ty-five years,  her  empire  continued  and  extended. 
She  sat  upon  her  throne,  a  regal  schoolmistress,  and 
summoned  her  subjects  about  her,  and  with  a  min- 
gling of  severity  and  gentleness,  she  told  her  little 
anecdotes  and  preached  her  little  sermons  and 
recited  her  clever  little  maxims  and  justly  appor- 
tioned the  rewards  and  the  punishments.  She  was 
a  quiet  influence  for  good  in  a  time  when  vice  was 
very  noisy. 

It  was  not  only  her  grandmother's  teachings 
which  had  helped  Madame  Geoffrin  to  this  high 
position.  She  had  acquired  something  from 
Madame  de  Tencin.  Madame  Geoffrin  had  attended 
frequently  the  salon  of  that  talented  but  immoral 
woman.  Madame  de  Tencin,  when  she  was  dying, 
shrewdly  observed,  "Do  you  know  why  she 
comes  ?  It  is  to  see  what  she  can  gather  from  my 
inventory."  It  was  spiteful,  no  doubt,  of  Madame 
de  Tencin  to  say  this,  and  yet,  as  it  chanced, 
Madame  Geoffrin  really  did  inherit,  in  a  measure, 
the  social  sway  of  Madame  de  Tencin.  She  learned 
method  from  her.  It  was  Madame  de  Tencin  who 
told  her,  "  Refuse  the  friendship  of  no  man,  for 
though  nine  persons  out  of  ten  should  fail  you 
the  tenth  may  prove  useful  to  you."  This  advice 
Madame  Geoffrin  remembered.  Though  she  did 
not  accept  it  wholly,  she  profited  by  it. 

Madame  de  Tencin's  method,  however,  and 
grandmamma's  teachings,  and  Monsieur  Geoffrin's 


MADAME  GEOFFRIN.  bl 

fortune  were  but  aids.  The  empire  was  Madame 
Geoffrin's  by  lier  own  right,  a  right  that  came  of  a 
wisdom  not  of  books  —  something  deeper,  broader, 
and  more  intuitive.  This  wisdom  we  may  define 
as  common-sense,  compounded  of  tact  and  taste 
and  kindness  and  a  proper  regard  for  order  and 
right  conduct. 

Madame's  management  of  her  salon  was  a  fine 
art.  Upon  it  she  spent  infinite  thought  and  labor — 
careful  thought,  skilled  labor.  She  permitted  no 
hitches,  no  jars.  Consequently,  all  ran  as  smoothly 
as  the  perfected  wheelwork  of  an  expert  artisan. 
On  Mondays  she  entertained  at  dinner  artists  and 
sculptors ;  on  Wednesdays,  men  of  letters.  At 
these  dinners  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  was  the 
only  woman  guest.  Women,  Madame  Geoffrin 
determined,  divided  the  interest;  and  what  she 
desired  for  these  dinners  was  unity.  After  dinner 
she  received  the  world.  Then  the  evening  ended 
with  a  merry  little  supper,  to  which  were  bidden 
half  a  dozen  or  so  of  her  most  intimate  friends, 
this  time  both  women  and  men.  At  her  board,  in 
her  parlors,  might  be  seen  Marmontel,  Holbach, 
d'Alembert.  To  their  philosophic  and  literary 
talk  was  added  the  broken  French  of  some  illus- 
trious foreigner  and  the  girlish  treble  of  some  sweet 
flower  of  a  Countess  d'Egmont. 

Over  her  guests,  it  has  been  said,  Madame 
Geoffrin  presided  like  "  an  invisible  Providence." 
Her  influence  was  one  of  peace.     She  never  per- 


68  MADAME  GEOFFRIN. 

mitted  conversation  to  wander  into  the  stormy 
realms  of  politics  and  religion.  She  tolerated  no 
passions,  not  even  the  passion  for  virtue.  When 
discussions  became  in  the  least  degree  heated,  she 
raised  her  hand  enjoining  silence.  "There,  that 
will  do,"  she  said,  and  she  introduced  a  more 
tranquil  topic. 

Her  rule,  therefore,  was  quiet.  She  would  per- 
mit no  rebellious  pupils  in  her  school.  When  one 
was  so  naughty  as  to  do  or  say  or  write  anything 
that  sent  him  to  the  Bastille,  she  was  much  dis- 
pleased and  never  quite  forgave  him.  She  did  not 
like  extremes.  "•  My  mind,"  she  said,  "  is  like  my 
legs.  I  love  to  walk  on  level  ground,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  climb  a  mountain  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
saying,  when  I  have  reached  the  top,  'I  have 
climbed  that  mountain.' "  She  was  opposed  to 
haste  and  change,  and  though  she  was  in  favor  of  the 
philosophic  spirit  of  the  time,  she  wished  to  keep  it 
within  bounds.  "  There  is  no  need,"  she  declared, 
"  of  pulling  down  the  old  house  before  we  have  built 
the  new  one."  Thus  her  empire  was  one  of  calm 
restraint. 

From  all  this  it  may  be  seen  that  Madame  Geoff- 
rin  Avas  a  Conservative.  She  was  an  example  of  the 
moderate  spirit  of  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  And  she  was  also  an  example  of  its  dry- 
ness, its  terseness,  its  practicality.  She  was  with- 
out extravagances  and  without  illusions.  She 
hated   flattery,    and    desired    always    that    people 


MADAME  GEOFFRIN.  59 

should  address  her  with  the  simplicity  and  frank- 
ness of  a  cliild.  To  Madame  Necker  she  wrote : 
"  My  dear  friend,  1  beg  of  you  to  lessen  your  exces- 
sive admiration.  I  assure  you,  you  humiliate  me. 
The  angels  think  very  little  about  me,  and  I  do  not 
trouble  myself  about  them.  Their  praise  and 
blame  are  indifferent  matters  to  me,  for  I  shall  not 
come  tlieir  way.  But  what  I  desire  is  that  you 
love  me  and  take  me  as  you  find  me." 

Madame's  charity,  too,  was  in  keeping  with  the 
age  which  she  represented,  an  age  so  moderate,  so 
dry,  so  terse,  so  practical,  that  it  was  also  egotisti- 
cal. Some  one  once  spoke  disparagingly  to  her  of 
her  cream.  '"  What  can  I  do?  "  she  said.  "■  I  cannot 
change  my  milk  woman."  "And  why  not?"  in- 
quired her  friends.  "  What  has  your  milk  woman 
done  that  you  cannot  change  her?"  "I  have 
given  her  two  cows,"  madame  replied.  That  was 
her  way.  Her  acts  of  benevolence  were  to  her 
works  of  art  which  she  loved  to  contemplate.  She 
would  do  nothing  to  spoil  them  and  detract  from 
the  pleasure  which  her  recollection  of  them  afforded 
her.  Thus  her  charity,  while  generous  and  kind, 
was  not  exactly  according  to  Scripture.  It  sought 
its  own.  What  madame  desired  was  not  so  much 
the  happiness  of  the  recipient  as  her  own  satisfac- 
tion. She  bestowed  her  gifts  with  a  delicacy  that 
made  refusal  a  rudeness^  She  ran  away,  quite  in- 
considerately, from  the  tears  and  thanks  of  the 
beholden.     There  was  a  little  selfishness  in  all  this, 


60  MADAME  GEOFFRIN. 

yet  a  noble  selfishness  that  sought  the  realization 
of  goodness  for  its  goal.  Madame  herself  admitted 
the  fault  in  her  charity,  and  excused  it  in  her 
usual  clever  fashion.  Those  who  gave  seldom,  she 
declared,  had  no  need  of  thinking  of  themselves; 
but  those  who,  like  herself,  made  a  practice  of 
giving  must  do  so  in  the  way  most  agreeable 
to  themselves,  for  "  it  is  necessary  to  do  con- 
veniently," she  said,  "  what  one  wishes  to  do  every 
day." 

INIadame's  charity,  then,  was  no  more  angelic 
than  she  desired  Madame  Necker's  praises  of 
herself  to  be.  It  was  of  the  earth,  and  very  sensi- 
ble and  practical.  We  are  able  to  trace  it  in  a  few 
of  its  various  Avindings.  We  discover  Madame 
Geoffrin  paying  the  debts  of  Stanislaus  Poniatow- 
ski,  afterwards  king  of  Poland,  and  granting  to 
Morellet  a  sufficient  allowance  for  an  independent 
existence,  and  to  Thomas  another  such  allowance. 
We  see  her  visiting  the  houses  of  her  friends,  and 
bestowing  here  and  there  a  vase,  a  couch,  a  chair, 
whatever  is  most  needed.  And  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, when  she  is  alone,  coming  upon  her  by 
stealth,  we  find  her  tying  up  little  bags  of  money 
for  distribution  among  the  poor.  She  had  what 
she  called  the  giving  humor.  It  was  a  help  and 
comfort  to  the  world. 

Such  was  Madame  Geoffrin's  life.  She  bestowed 
gifts ;  she  entertained  her  friends  at  little  dinner 
and  supper   parties;  she  managed   her  house  and 


MADAME  GEOFFRIN.  61 

her  salon.  Her  days  passed  smoothly  and  monoto- 
nously. 

At  length  came  the  event  of  her  life.  She  made 
her  journey  to  Warsaw.  Her  favorite  among  her 
school-children,  Stanislaus  Poniatowski,  was  the 
cause  of  her  journey.  Stanislaus,  her  protege, 
whose  debts  wo  saw  her  paying,  had  ascended  the 
throne  of  Poland.  He  wrote  to  her  :  "  Mamma, 
your  son  is  king."  He  invited  her  to  visit  him  in 
his  new  kingdom.  She  accepted  his  invitation, 
she  left  her  dear  France,  and  this  because  she 
loved  him. 

Madame  Geoffrin  loved  Stanislaus  as  she  might 
have  loved  a  son.  She  scolded  him  as  she  scolded 
all  her  school-children,  she  encouraged  him,  she 
gave  him  wise  counsel.  He  endured  her  scoldings  ; 
he  responded  to  lier  encouragements  ;  he  disregarded 
her  counsels;  he  behaved  as  children  will.  She 
quarrelled  with  him  and  forgave  him.  "  When  one 
is  young,"  she  told  him,  "pleasures,  passions, 
tastes  even  form  attachments  and  break  them. 
My  love  for  you  depends  on  none  of  these  things, 
and  therefore  it  has  lasted.  It  has  lasted  in  spite  of 
candor  and  plain  speaking,  and  it  will  last  to  the 
end  of  my  life."  She  spoke  truly.  She  loved 
him,  as  she  said,  to  the  end,  and  dying  while  he 
was  yet  prosperous  was  spared  the  pain  of  his 
downfall. 

It  was  to  visit  Stanislaus,  as  we  have  seen,  that 
Madame    Geoffrin  made    her     famous  journey'   to 


62  MADAME  GEOFFRIJSf. 

Warsaw.  Her  one  thought  was  of  him.  She  did 
not  anticipate  the  triumphs  with  wliich  she  was 
everywhere  met.  The  monarchs  of  the  countries 
through  whicli  slie  passed  seemed  to  forget  that 
she  was  just  a  private  citizen,  and  treated  lier 
like  a  queen.  Maria  Tlieresa  was  especially  atten- 
tive to  her.  Madame  Geoffrin  saw  at  the  Austrian 
court  Marie  Antoinette,  then  a  beautiful  child  of 
twelve.  'vAs  lovely  as  an  angel,"  Madanie  Geoft"- 
rin  declared  her  to  be.  "  Write  to  your  country 
and  say  you  have  found  her  so,"  was  the  answer 
she  received,  and  it  was  thus  she  wrote.  Later  she 
wrote  of  the  king  of  Poland :  "  It  is  a  terrible 
position  to  be  king  of  Poland.  I  dare  not  say  how 
unfortunate  I  find  him."  She  wrote,  too,  that  her 
heart  remained  the  same.  She  was  loyal  to  old 
friends.  Honors  had  not  turned  her  head.  She 
found  men  and  things  much  the  same  everywhere, 
yet  kept  always  her  preference  for  France.  "  All 
that  I  have  seen  since  I  quitted  my  Penates," 
she  declared,  "makes  me  thank  God  for  having 
been  born  a  Frenchwoman  and  a  private  citizen." 

Madame  Geoffrin  returned  to  Paris  and  the 
Parisians.  She  was  glad  to  be  at  home  again, 
When  people  spoke  to  her  of  the  consideration  she 
had  been  shown,  she  neither  denied  it  nor  boasted 
of  it.  She  maintained  her  dignified  and  clever 
modesty. 

She  continued  her  dinner  and  supper  parties, 
her  scoldings,  and  her  generous  giving.     She  drew 


MADAME  GEOFFRIN.  63 

from  her  little  court  the  best  that  was  in  thcui, 
whatever  of  virtue,  whatever  of  talent  they  pos- 
sessed. Once  slie  complimented  an  old  abbe  on 
his  convei-sation.  "  JNladame,"  he  replied,  "  I  am 
but  the  instrument  on  which  you  have  played 
beautifully."  And  what  the  old  abbe  said  that  she 
did  to  him  she  did  to  all.  She  played  beautifully 
on  every  one  who  came  witliin  her  inlluence. 
Consequently,  there  was  always  harmony  where 
she  was. 

Madame  Geoffrin  was  a  philosopher  with  the 
philosophers.  Yet  there  was  a  private  chapel  in 
her  mind  to  wliich  her  thought  very  often  repaired. 
She  was  quietly  religious.  She  was  disturbed 
when  one  of  her  school-children  died  without  con- 
fession, just  as  she  was  when  one  of  them  was  sent 
to  the  Bastille.  She  wished  to  have  the  proprieties 
observed  in  religion  as  in  all  things.  Madame 
Geoffrin  had  a  daughter,  an  only  child,  who  was 
more  strictly,  more  ostentatiously  devout.  She 
did  not  like  her  mother's  philosophic  friends.  As 
Madame  Geoffrin  grew  old  and  ill  and  feeble, 
this  daughter  stood  sentinel  over  her  and  would 
not  admit  Marmontel,  D'Alembert,  and  the  rest 
to  her  mother's  presence.  Her  severity  amused 
Madame  Geoffrin.  "  My  daughter  is  like  Godfrey 
de  Bouillon,"  she  said.  "  She  wants  to  defend  my 
tomb  against  the  infidels."  She  secretly  contin- 
ued her  gifts  to  "  these  infidels,"  and  sent  them 
messages  of  good  will  and  affection.     But  she  did 


64  MADAME  GEOFFRIN. 

not  see  them.  Thus  she  kept  peace  with  her 
daughter,  and  at  the  same  time  did  not  forsake  her 
friends. 

We  are  granted  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  Madame 
Geoffrin  in  these  last  days.  She  writes  to  Stanis- 
laus of  a  visit  she  has  just  received  from  a  troop 
of  merry  girls.  She  is  merry  with  them,  she  laughs 
with  tliem,  she  makes  them  forget  the  distance 
between  youth  and  age.  Yet,  before  they  leave, 
she  lets  fall  a  bit  of  her  school-ma'am  sophistry. 
She  scolds  them  for  wasting  their  youth,  and 
preaches  to  them  that  they  may  have  an  old  age  as 
bright  and  health}^  as  hers. 

This  was  Madame  Geoffrin.  No  one  understood 
so  well  as  she  how  to  combine  the  ethical  and  the 
gay,  the  frowns  and  the  smiles  of  life.  She  was  a 
dear  mentor.  It  is  as  such  that  the  world  remem- 
bers her  and  as  such  that  the  world  loves  her. 


MADEMOISELLE   DE    LESPINASSE. 


Born  at  Lyons,  Nov.  18,  1732. 
Died  at  Paria,  May  2.3,  1776. 


"It  is  impossible  to  encounter  such  beings  (as  Mile,  de 
Lespinasse),  victims  of  a  sacred  passion  and  of  so  generous  a 
woe,  without  being  moved  to  a  sentiment  of  respect  and  admira- 
tion in  the  midst  of  the  profound  pity  which  they  inspire."  — 
Sainte-Beuve. 

Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  writing  to  that 
"false  great  man,"  M.  de  Guibert,  whom  slie  so 
passionately  loved,  compared  her  life  to  the  most 
pathetic  pages  in  the  novels  of  Richardson  and 
Prevost.  "  I  have  lived  a  hundred  j-ears,"  she 
said.  In  a  sense  she  spoke  truly.  With  such 
intensity  had  she  existed,  so  much  of  loving  and  of 
suffering  had  she  experienced  in  her  short  life  that 
in  spirit,  if  not  in  fact,  her  years  numbered  a  hun- 
dred. 

During  mademoiselle's  lifetime  she  was  known 
only  as  the  charming  woman  dear  to  society,  the 
mistress  of  the  Parisian  salon  most  in  vogue.  The 
world  that  every  day  from  five  in  the  afternoon  to 
nine  in  the  evening  assembled  in  her  parlors  in  the 
Rue  de  Belle-Chasse  was  not  acquainted  with  her 
other  personality.  It  was  not  until  after  her  death 
that  her  true  character  became  manifest.  Then  it 
was  that  the  publication  of  her  letters  by  the  widow 

G.5 


60  MADEMOISELLE  I)E  LESPINASSE. 

of  Guibert,  the  man  to  whom  the  letters  were  ad- 
dressed, revealed  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  as 
she  really  was,  a  woman  all  feeling,  all  heart,  a 
feverish,  throbbing,  self-consuming  soul. 

There  was  ever  about  Julie  an  atmosphere  of 
mystery  and  sadness.  "  Her  face  was  never  young," 
said  one  who  knew  her.  She  was  twenty-two  years 
old  when,  as  the  companion  of  the  witty,  crotchety, 
old  Madame  du  Deffand,  she  made  her  first  appear- 
ance in  Parisian  society.  Every  one  was  inquiring 
Avho  she  was,  whence  she  came,  what  was  her  his- 
tory. That  she  was  somebody  from  somewhere 
and  that  she  had  a  history  was  evident  to  all.  But 
no  one  could  discover  anything  about  her.  Madame 
du  Deffand  was  deaf  to  all  questions  in  regard  to 
her  charming  young  companion.  And  Julie  her- 
self on  all  personal  matters  maintained  a  sorrow- 
ful and  impenetrable  silence. 

People  were  left  to  wonder.  They  wondered. 
And  while  they  wondered,  they  admired,  they 
loved.  This  Mile.  Julie  de  Lespinasse,  who  had 
neither  fortune,  rank,  nor  beauty  to  commend  her, 
became  the  rage  in  Parisian  society.  The  habitues 
of  Madame  du  Deffand's  brilliant  salon  almost  for- 
got the  witty  marquise  whom  they  had  come  to 
see,  and  gave  their  thoughts  and  their  attention  to 
the  poor,  proud,  untitled  woman  who  was  her  com- 
panion. 

All  people,  even  those  who  admired  and  loved 
Julie  most,  found  it  difficult  to  explain  her  charm. 


MADEMOISELLE    DE   LESPINASSE. 
From  a  painting  by  Carmontelle. 


MADEMOISKLf.E  1)E   LKSPINASSE.  67 

She  was  not  pretty  they  admitted.  Indeed,  she 
was  quite  phiin,  but  —  the  "buts"  came  fast,  elo- 
quently, ardently. 

Julie  was  tall  and  slender  and  of  a  noble,  grace- 
ful bearing,  we  are  told.  The  perfect  taste  and 
simplicity  with  which  she  dressed  gave  the  effect 
of  richness  to  her  apparel.  But  her  chief  attrac- 
tion, her  chief  external  charm,  the  one  upon  which 
all  testimonies  agree  and  dwell  was  her  "expres- 
sive countenance."  She  had  not  one  expression, 
we  are  informed,  but  all  expressions.  Her  voice, 
too,  was  remarkable.  It  had  all  tones,  all  inflec- 
tions. And  never,  it  was  said,  did  a  more  perfect 
harmony  of  face,  voice,  and  soul  exist  than  that 
embodied  in  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse. 

It  was  not  upon  external  qualities,  however,  that 
mademoiselle  depended  principally  for  her  charm. 
She  pleased  by  her  person.  Bat  she  pleased  much 
more  by  her  mind,  her  character.  That  which  one 
noted  first  of  all  in  the  mind,  the  character  of  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Lespinasse  was  her  tact,  her  intuitive, 
unerring  tact.  She  exclaimed  once  to  her  friend, 
D'Alembert,  "  Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  know 
everybody's  pet  weakness."  She  said  this  because 
she  liked  to  make  tliose  about  her  happy,  to  help 
them  to  ap[)ear  at  their  best  by  leading  them  to 
speak  of  tliat  in  which  they  were,  each  one,  most 
interested.  And,  if  we  will  examine  the  testimony 
of  those  who  knew  her,  we  will  find  that  she  was 
not  far  from  obtainino'  lier  \vish.     It  is  related  of 


68  MADEMOISELLE  1)E  LE8PINASSE. 

her  that  she  said  to  each  one  that  which  suited  him, 
that  she  never  talked  above  or  below  the  feelings  or 
understandings  of  her  listener,  that  she  had  always 
at  her  disposal  that  precious  gift  of  the  right  word, 
that  she  drew  confidence  gently,  and  divined  every 
one's  secret  thoughts. 

An  aid  to  her  in  this  power  of  divination  was  a 
quality  that  has  been  defined  by  one  among  her 
friends  as  "freedom  from  personality."  She  for- 
got herself,  she  lost  herself  in  the  interest  of  others. 
She  was  no  longer  herself  when  talking.  She  was 
somebody  else's  "  I." 

This  power  of  divination,  this  ability  to  put  her- 
self in  another's  place,  this  exquisite  tact,  ranked 
first  among  her  charms.  That  which  was  next 
admired,  next  praised,  was  her  naturalness.  She 
was,  we  are  told,  natural  in  her  bearing,  her  move- 
ments, her  gestures,  her  thoughts,  her  expressions, 
her  style.  Pretension  was  repugnant  to  her.  And 
she  hated  the  affected  manners  and  other  follies  of 
people  in  society.  She  never  aired  her  knowledge, 
her  talents,  her  abilities.  Consequently  it  was  of 
her,  not  of  these  other  things,  that  people  thought 
when  they  talked  to  her.  It  was  herself  they 
loved. 

We  might  go  on  indefinitely  speaking  of  made- 
moiselle's charms,  of  the  excellence  of  her  tone, 
the  correctness  of  her  taste,  her  knowledge  of  all 
that  is  elegant  and  refined  and  which  enabled  her 
to   divine  the  language  of  what  is  called  "good 


MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE.  G9 

society,"  as  Pascal  in  his  day,  while  it  was  yet 
unformed,  divined  the  French  language.  Heading 
of  these  cliarnis,  told  in  the  glowing  phrases  of  her 
admirers,  we  are  pleased  with  mademoiselle  as  the 
world  of  her  time  was  pleased  with  her.  She  was 
so  thoroughly  a  lady  that  we  camujt  but  enjoy  her 
company.  As  yet  we  know  her  only,  we  like  her 
only,  as  the  world  knew  and  liked  her.  Later  we 
shall  become  more  intimately  acquainted  with  her, 
we  shall  see  her  as  her  friends  saw  her.  We  shall 
discover  what  D'Alembert  called  "the  shadows" 
in  her  character.  We  shall  discover  these  shadows 
and  at  the  same  time,  through  the  eyes  of  her 
friends,  we  shall  behold  lights  of  mind  and  charac- 
ter as  yet  unrevealed. 

It  was  mademoiselle  as  we  now  know  her,  how- 
ever, the  tall,  graceful,  unbeautiful  woman  with 
expressive  countenance,  simply  dressed,  tactful, 
natural,  in  every  point  a  lady,  who  captivated  the 
world  of  the  Parisian  salon.  For  her  people  for- 
sook Madame  du  Deffand,  the  wittiest  and  most 
aristocratic  woman  in  Paris,  and  followed  her,  an 
emigrant  spirit,  to  her  modest  little  apartment  in 
the  Rue  de  Belle-Chasse.  She  was  the  magnet  to 
whom  poets,  philosophers,  students,  men  of  fortune, 
and  affairs  were  drawn. 

Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  certainly  was  a 
remarkable  and  interesting  woman.  It  was  natural 
that  people  should  wonder  about  her,  that  they 
should  wish  to  penetrate  the  atmosphere  of  mystery 


70  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

that  enveloped  her.  Yet  few  among  her  intimates 
were  admitted  to  her  secrets.  Few  knew  of  Julie 
all  that  there  was  to  know. 

Her  history,  as  she  hereelf  declared,  was  a  sad 
one.  She  was  the  natural  daugliter  of  the  (.^ount- 
ess  D'Albon,  a  lady  of  consequence  in  Burgundy. 
She  was  brought  up  by  her  mother,  loved  and 
cared  for  by  her  in  secret,  and  given  a  brilliant 
education. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  this  mother's  death  that 
unhappiness  first  claimed  Julie  for  its  own.  The 
intimacy  of  family  life,  Guibert  tells  us,  is  the 
scene  of  life's  deepest  passions  and  greatest  calami- 
ties. He  said  this  with  Julie's  story  in  mind. 
From  the  position  of  cherished  daughter  she 
descended  to  that  of  dependent,  of  stranger.  Her 
relatives  were  not  her  friends.  Rather  they  were 
her  persecutors.  They  told  her  ruthlessly  who 
she  was  and  that  she  must  expect  nothing  from 
them.  We  can  imagine  what  were  the  sufferings 
of  the  proud,  sensitive  girl,  so  suddenly  orphaned 
and  abandoned.  "  Sorrows,"  remarked  D'Alembert, 
referring  to  that  period  of  her  life,  "  fed  upon  her." 

Five  of  the  3'ears  following  her  mother's  death 
Julie  lived  at  Chamrond  with  the  Marquise  de 
Vichy,  legitimate  daugliter  of  tlie  Countess  D'Albon. 
She  had  the  right  to  expect  some  privileges,  some 
advantages,  but  she  was  given  none.  Almost 
immediately  she  was  made  governess  of  the  mar- 
quise's   children.     Humble,    inferior    duties    were 


MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE.  71 

hers.  She  could  have  forgiven  the  duLics,  however. 
The  marquise's  manner  toward  her,  one  of  insolent 
patrona,i,^e,  slie  could  not  forgive. 

The  Man^uise  de  Vich}-  liad  married  the  brother 
of  Madame  du  Deffand,  the  Marquis  de  Vichy- 
Chamroiid.  And  it  was  at  the  chateau  of  Cham- 
rond  tliat  Madame  du  Deffand  and  Julie  de  Les- 
pinasse  first  met.  Madame,  it  is  said,  was 
impressed  with  the  air  of  sadness  that  dimmed 
the  young  girl's  face  and  she  was  attracted  by 
Julie's  rare  charm  and  intelligence.  The  two 
women  were  warmly  drawn  to  each  other.  The 
superiority  of  their  minds  made  them  congenial 
comrades.  Madame  soon  drew  Julie's  confidence. 
"  She  told  me,"  wrote  Madame  du  Deffaiid,  ''  that 
it  was  no  longer  possible  for  her  to  remain  with 
Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Vichy ;  that  she  had  long 
borne  the  harshest  and  most  humiliating  treatment ; 
that  her  patience  was  now  at  an  end  ;  that  she  had 
declared  to  Madame  de  Vichy  that  she  must  go 
away,  being  unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  scenes 
that  were  made  to  her  daily." 

Madame  du  Deffand,  as  it  happened,  was  at  this 
time  nearly  blind  and  in  search  of  a  reader,  a 
companion.  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  she 
decided,  was  the  person  she  needed,  the  person  she 
desired.  She  proposed  to  Julie  that  she  come  and 
live  with  her  in  Paris  at  her  apartment  in  the  Con- 
vent of  Saint  Joseph.  Julie  could  not  immediately 
accept   the    offer.       Her  brother   and   sister,    the 


72  MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE. 

Vicomte  D'Albon  and  Madame  de  Vichy  raised 
objections.  They  feared  the  position  proposed  to 
her  might  make  known  her  rights  to  the  D'Albon 
name  and  a  share  in  the  family  fortunes.  She 
retired  to  the  convent  at  Lyons  to  await  their 
consent. 

Julie  received  many  grave  injunctions  from 
Madame  du  Deffand  in  regard  to  tlie  new  position 
she  was  called  upon  to  fill.  Madame  pictured  to 
her  what  her  life  would  be,  told  her  it  would  be  a 
dull  one,  reminded  her  that,  though  she  would  be 
in  the  world,  she  could  not  be  of  it,  commanded 
that  she  must  totally  forget  who  she  was  and 
resolve  never  to  think  of  changing  her  social  state. 
Above  all,  madame  insisted  upon  perfect  candor  in 
Julie's  deportment  toward  herself.  "  The  slightest 
artifice,"  she  informed  her,  '•  even  the  most  trifling 
little  art,  if  jow.  were  to  put  it  into  your  conduct, 
would  be  intolerable  to  me.  I  am  naturally  dis- 
trustful and  all  those  in  whom  I  detect  slyness 
become  suspicious  to  me  to  the  point  of    no  longer 

feelinsf  the  slightest  confidence  in  them.     There- 
to o 

fore,  you  must,  my  queen,  resolve  to  live  with  me 
with  the   utmost   truth  and   sincerity." 

Julie  listened.  Her  young,  ardent,  aspiring 
spirit  grew  troubled  under  the  older  woman's 
strictures  and  wisdom.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  this 
suspicious  woman  of  the  world,  who  had  taken  so 
great  a  fancy  to  her  mind  was  quite  incapable  of 
ever   knowing   her   heart.      She   feared,   she   told 


MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE.  73 

raadame,  to  fall  into  a  state  of  discouragement, 
which  would  render  her  intolerable  and  inspire 
her  future  mistress  with  disgust  and  repentance. 
We  can  imagine  Julie's  attitude  of  proud 
humility,  and  the  air  of  measured  kindness 
and  reassurance  with  which  the  elder  woman  met 
it.  In  the  end,  as  was  inevitable,  Julie  agreed,  she 
promised.  And  when  her  brother  and  sister,  per- 
suaded of  their  own  security  under  the  conditions 
of  her  new  position,  had  given  their  consent,  she 
went  to  live  as  companion  and  reader  to  Madame 
du  Deffand,  in  that  worldly  retreat  of  unworldly 
name,  the  Convent  of  Saint  Joseph. 

The  life  in  common  between  Madame  du  Deff- 
and and  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  was  begun  in 
1757,  and  it  lasted  ten  years.  Considering  the 
natures  of  the  two  women  and  the  elements  with 
which  they  had  to  reckon,  the  amazing  thing  is  not 
that  their  intimacy  did  not  continue  longer,  but 
that  it  continued  as  long  as  it  did.  Given  two 
women,  such  as  they,  of  equal  minds,  both  pre- 
eminently fitted  for  social  leadership,  the  one  a 
recognized  power,  old,  jealous,  suspicious,  the 
other  a  rising  sovereign,  young  and  ambitious,  a 
rupture  was  the  natural,  almost  the  inevitable, 
consequence  of  their  union.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
picture  the  various  stages  of  the  estrangement: 
madame's  envy  of  Julie's  success,  the  gradual 
withdrawal  of  her  friendly  patronage  and  protec- 
tion, the  development  of    her  never  very   sweet 


74  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

disposition  to  the  point  of  injustice  and  unkind- 
ness ;  Julie's  distress  when  she  found  herself 
out  of  favor,  her  tactful,  painstaking  attempts 
to  reinstate  herself  in  the  good  graces  of  her 
mistress,  then,  as  madame  continued  to  play  the 
tyrant,  the  slow  cooling  of  mademoiselle's  interest 
and  gratitude.  We  are  sorry  for  madame,  and  at 
the  same  time  we  are  sorry  for  Julie.  Of  course 
both  were  at  fault,  and  yet  neither  was  at  fault. 
Their's  was  a  quarrel  in  which  it  is  impossible  to 
determine  the  right  and  the  wrong. 

However,  when  we  come  to  consider  the  final 
break,  I  think  it  is  madame,  old,  sick,  disappointed, 
abandoned,  defiant,  who  has  our  sympathy,  not  her 
brilliant  3'oung  companion  whose  glory  has 
eclipsed  her  own.  It  may  be  that  Julie  is  no  more 
culpable  than  before,  but  she  is  victorious,  and 
sj^mpathy  always  goes  to  the  unfortunate,  to  the 
defeated. 

"  The  slightest  artifice,"  madame  had  said  to 
Julie  when  she  took  the  young  girl  to  live  with 
her,  "  would  be  intolerable  to  me."  In  madame's 
eyes  Julie  was  found  guilty  of  this  artifice  when 
she  entertained  a  chosen  few  of  madame's  friends, 
privately,  secretly  in  her  own  room.  Madame  du 
Deffand,  who  was  an  invalid  and  who  slept  late, 
rising  unexpectedly  one  evening,  came  suddenly 
upon  mademoiselle  and  her  company.  Madame  felt 
herself  robbed  of  her  social  rights,  cheated,  out- 
raged.    Her  anger  broke  forth  violently.     To  her 


MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE.  75 

miiul  this  secret  meeting  in  mademoiselle's  room 
was  nothing  less  than  treachery.  "  She  uttered 
loud  out-cries,"  said  Marmontcl,  who  was  among 
those  present,  "she  accused  the  poor  girl  of  steal- 
inof  her  friends,  and  declared  that  she  would  no 
longer  warm  the  ser})ent  in  her  bosom." 

The  rupture  between  the  two  women  had  all  the 
importance  of  an  event.  Parisian  society  was 
divided,  so  to  speak,  into  two  camps.  Julie's  camp 
had  by  far  the  greater  number  of  followers.  Not 
only  did  D'Alembert,  whom  Madame  du  Deffand 
compelled  to  chose  between  herself  and  her  former 
companion,  boldly  take  Julie's  part,  not  only  did 
those  men  more  especially  Julie's  friends,  such 
men  as  Turgot,  the  Chevalier  de  Castellux,  and 
Marmontel  stand  by  her,  but  even  President  Ilen- 
ault  and  others  of  madame's  intimates  declared  for 
Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse. 

Julie  left  the  Convent  of  Saint  Joseph  abruptly. 
Her  separation  from  Madame  du  Deffand  left  her 
with  only  the  trilling  income  of  one  hundred 
crowns  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  mother. 

Though  poor  in  purse,  however,  she  was  rich  in 
friends.  One  friend  obtained  for  her  an  annual 
income  from  the  king,  which  placed  her  above 
actual  need.  Another  friend  made  a  present  to  her 
of  the  furniture  of  the  apartment  she  had  hired- 
She  found  herself  established,  though  not  luxu- 
riously, at  least  comfortably  and  pleasantly  in  the 
Rue   de    Belle-Chasse,  mistress  of   a   salon  which 


70  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

culled  every  evening  for  its  adornment  the  flower 
of  the  minds  of  that  time. 

To  advance  her  new  position  in  life,  many  gen- 
erous offers  of  assistance  were  made  to  Julie. 
She  would  receive,  however,  only  such  as  she 
believed  confidently  that  she  could  return.  She 
preferred  being  poor  to  being  indebted.  She  had 
what  D'Alembert  defined  as  "  the  honorable  pride 
that  hates  benefits." 

"  I  have  always  considered,"  she  once  said  to 
Guibert,  "  that  equality  is  the  first  condition  to  ren- 
der friendsliip  durable.  Friendship  cannot  exist 
from  the  moment  one  friend  becomes  the  benefactor, 
the  other  the  beholden.  The  cares,  attentions, 
councils,  feelings  of  my  friends  I  receive  because 
I  can  return  them.  But  how  can  I  return  what 
they  might  do  to  increase  my  means  ?  I  should  be 
for  the  rest  of  my  life  ill  at  ease  with  them ;  when- 
ever my  affection  worked,  I  should  fear  they  saw 
only  my  gratitude.  They  would  love  me  less. 
And  as  for  me,  I  should  feel  oppressed  by  the  sort 
of  ascendancy  I  had  given  them  over  me." 

Perhaps  Julie's  hatred  of  benefits,  her  "honor- 
able pride,"  was  excessive.  Yet  we  must  agree 
with  D'Alembert  that  it  was  a  "  virtue "  and 
admire  her  for  it  as  her  friends  admired  her. 

Mademoiselle's  slender  means  would  not  permit 
her  to  give  suppers  like  Madame  Geoffrin,  Madame 
Necker,  and  the  other  salonists  of  the  day.  But 
every  evening  from  four  to  nine  o'clock  she  was 


MADEMOISELLE  DE  LEHP1NAS8E.  (7 

at  home,  and  not  for  all  the  feasts  of  the  Mtecena- 
ses  of  her  time  would  mademoiselle's  friends  have 
missed  her  festivals  of  intellect,  grace,  and  ele- 
gance. 

Mademoiselle's  salon  was  more  intellectual  than 
Madame  du  Deffand's,  more  aristocratic  than 
Madame  Geoffrin's.  It  was  cliaracterized  above  all 
else  by  variety.  In  every  other  salon  there  was  some 
ruling  spirit.  In  mademoiselle's  not  even  D'Alem- 
bert  was  any  more  than  an  ordinary  visitor.  There 
was  in  mademoiselle's  salon  a  place  for  every 
person,  a  chance  for  every  topic  of  conversation; 
politics,  religion,  philosophy,  anecdotes,  and  news 
all  contributed  to  the  entertainment  of  the  com- 
pany. 

Marmontel  has  compared  Julie's  management 
of  her  salon  to  the  wand  of  an  enchantress.  At  a 
word,  lightl}^  thrown  in,  apparently  without  effort, 
she  could  change  the  talk,  direct  it  at  will, 
exciting  it  or  modulating  it  as  she  desired.  "  Under 
her  guidance,"  he  said,  "  the  variously  assorted, 
widely  differing  members  of  society  fell  into  har- 
mony like  the  strings  of  an  instrument  touched  by 
an  able  hand.  She  played  the  instrument  with 
an  art  that  came  of  genius.  She  seemed  to  know 
what  tone  each  string  would  yield  before  she 
touched  it.  I  mean  to  say  that  our  minds  and 
our  natures  were  so  well  known  to  her  that  in 
order  to  bring  them  into  play  she  had  only  to  say 
a  word." 


78  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

Grimm  wrote  similarly  of  Julie's  ability  as  mis- 
tress of  her  salon.  "  She  possessed,"  he  said,  "  in  an 
eminent  degree  that  art  so  difficult  and  so  precious, 
—  of  making  the  best  of  the  minds  of  others,  of 
interesting  them  and  bringing  them  into  play  with- 
out any  appearance  of  constraint  or  effort.  No  one 
knew  better  how  to  do  the  honors  of  her  house. 
She  had  great  knowledge  of  the  world  and  that 
species  of  politeness  which  is  most  agreeable ;  I 
mean  that  which  has  the  tone  of  personal  interest." 

For  her  position  in  the  world  mademoiselle  was 
fitted,  as  we  have  seen,  b}^  nature.  She  had  received, 
moreover,  in  the  salon  of  Madame  du  Deffand  the 
best  sort  of  preparation  for  the  part  she  had  to 
play.  "  See  what  an  education  I  received  I "  she 
says  herself.  "Madame  du  Deffand,  President 
Renault,  the  Abbe  Bon,  the  Archbishop  of  Tou- 
louse, the  Archbishop  of  Aix,  Monsieur  Torgot, 
Monsieur  D'Alembert,  the  Abbe  Boismont  —  these 
were  the  persons  wlio  taught  me  to  speak  and  to 
think  and  Mdio  have  deigned  to  consider  me  as 
something." 

Conversation  was  not  all  that  went  on  in  Julie's 
salon.  Academicians  were  mada  there.  D'Alem- 
bert was  the  secretary  of  the  institution  and, 
through  her  influence  on  him,  mademoiselle  did  much 
to  the  making  of  reputations  and  the  electing  of 
members  to  the  academy.  Chastellux  owed  his 
admission  in  a  great  measure  to  her,  and  on  her 
deathbed  she  secured    that   of   La  Harpe.     Some 


MADEMOISELLE  T)E  LKSPTNASSE.  79 

blamed  mademoiselle  for  concerning  hei-self  in  the 
affairs  of  the  academy.  Her  friend  Grimm  defended 
her.  "  Why  should  women,  who  decide  everything 
in  France,"  he  queried,  "  not  decide  the  honors  of 
literature  ?  " 

We  now  know  Julie  as  the  world  knew  her. 
We  have  next  to  become  acquainted  with  her  as 
her  most  intimate  friends,  those  who  loved  her  best, 
as  D'Alembert  knew  her,  and  finally  as  he  to  whom 
she  disclosed  her  soul,  as  Monsieur  de  Guibert  knew 
her. 

Of  all  of  Julie's  friends,  and  she  had  many,  the 
most  appreciative  among  them,  the  most  constant, 
the  most  devoted  was  D'Alembert — D'Alembert,  the 
philosopher  and  mathematician,  D'Alembert,  secre- 
tary of  the  French  Academy,  chief  of  the  Encyclo- 
pedists. Of  the  connection  which  existed  between 
him  and  Julie  we  may  say  that  it  was  the  sweetest 
and  most  beautiful  episode  in  the  lives  of  both. 
In  reference  to  it  Julie  remarked,  and  she  remarked 
it,  sighing,  for  the  last  time,  to  D'Alembert  a 
short  time  before  she  died :  "Of  all  the  feelhigs 
which  I  have  inspired,  mine  for  you  and  youi-s  for 
me  is  the  only  one  that  has  not  made  me  unhappy." 

Julie  de  Lespinasse  and  D'Alembert  met  for  the 
first  time  in  the  salon  of  Madame  du  Deffand. 
They  were  immediately  attracted  to  each  other. 
"All  things,"  said  D'Alembert,  "even  our  common 
fate,  seemed  destined  to  unite  us.  Both  without 
family,  without  relatives,  having  experienced  neg- 


80  MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE. 

Icct,  misfortune,  and  injustice, — nature  seemed  to 
have  put  us  in  the  world  to  seek  each  other  out 
like  two  reeds  which  cling  together  and  support 
each  other." 

When  Julie  left  Madame  du  Deffand  and  went 
to  live  in  the  Rue  de  Belle  Chasse,  D'Alembert 
was  residing  with  his  foster  mother  on  the  Rue 
Michel-le-Comte.  The  Rue  Michel-le-Comte  was 
a  long  distance  from  the  Rue  de  Belle  Chasse,  but 
no  matter  how  bad  the  weather,  D'Alembert  never 
failed  in  his  attendance  at  Julie's  evening  assem- 
blies. He  was  taken  suddenly  very  ill.  Julie 
went  to  nurse  him.  If  the  world  had  been  dis- 
posed to  criticise  her  for  her  action,  which  it  was 
not,  it  could  not  have  deterred  her.  In  the  cause 
of  friendship  Julie  was  always  ardent,  impetuous, 
careless  of  restriction  or  convention.  D'Alerabert's 
physician  was  Yery  grave  when  questioned  as  to 
his  patient's  condition.  He  said  that  the  air  of  the 
Rue  Michel-le-Comte,  which  was  by  no  means 
pure  and  free,  might  prove  fatal.  Hearing  this, 
Julie  straightway  had  D'Alembert  removed  from 
the  Rue  Michel-le-Comte  to  her  own  lodgings. 
D'Alembert  recovered,  but  he  did  not  change  his 
quarters.  He  and  Julie  continued  to  live  under 
the  same  roof,  in  all  propriety  and  honor,  each  in  a 
separate  suite  of  rooms. 

Malignity  never  attacked  mademoiselle  and 
D'Alembert  because  of  their  intimacy.  Rather 
they  were  the  more  respected,  the  more  admired, 


MADEMOISELLE   DE  LESPINASSE.  81 

on  account  of  it.  There  was  in  it  something  lofty 
and  noble.  D'Alembert  thus  described  the  nature 
of  the  union  :  "  There  is  between  us  neither  mar- 
riage nor  love,"  he  said,  "  only  reciprocal  esteem 
and  all  the  gentleness  of  friendship." 

So  far  as  Julie  was  concerned,  the  statement  was 
doubtless  a  fact.  But  of  his  own  feelings  D'Alem- 
bert was  not  telling  the  whole  truth.  He  loved 
Julie  for  sixteen  years,  loved  her  deeply,  silently, 
untiringly,  and  with  an  unselfishness  very  rare. 

D'Alembert  spoke  of  himself  as  an  "  old  and  sad 
philosopher."  He  believed  that  Julie  was  worthy 
of  a  younger,  livelier  man  than  he,  and  of  a  richer 
establishment  than  he  could  offer  her.  He  assumed 
toward  her  the  attitude  of  an  elder  brother.  He 
admired  her,  he  criticised  her,  he  gave  her  his  con- 
fidence. Each  morning,  before  setting  out  on  some 
project,  some  literary  undertaking,  he  asked  for  her 
encouragement.  Each  evening  he  returned  to  her 
with  the  story  of  his  day's  doings.  And  Julie  w^as 
always  at  hand,  always  waiting,  kind,  interested, 
sympathetic,  an  ideal  sister. 

Together  they  discussed  the  affairs  of  the 
Academy,  and  of  the  Encyclopedists.  They  spoke 
of  literatiire.  Julie  talked  enthusiastically  of 
Racine,  Voltaire,  and  La  Fontaine.  She  praised  Le 
Sage  and  Prevost.  She  grew  impassioned  over 
Rousseau,  Richardson,  and  Sterne,  the  author  of  the 
"  Sentimental  Journey,"  which  she  had  translated 
into  French.    D'Alembert  smiled  a  little  at  her  pref- 


82  MADEMOISELLE   DE  LESPINASSE. 

erences.  She  was  too  much  influenced,  he  told 
her,  by  the  presence  or  absence  of  feeling  and 
warmth  in  a  work.  If  a  book  had  these  qualities, 
he  said,  whatever  its  blemishes,  however  consider- 
able these  blemishes  were,  she  could  not  see  them  ; 
the  book  was  perfect  in  her  eyes.  Feeling  and 
warmth,  he  declared,  were  her  domain.  In  all  that 
pertained  to  these  qualities  she  was  never  mistaken 
in  her  judgments.  She  was  a  sentimentalist,  he 
said. 

One  would  like  to  linger  indefinitely  over  this 
period  of  Julie's  life,  it  was  so  calm,  so  peaceful, 
so  pleasant,  so  different  from  the  storm  and  stress 
that  succeeded  it.  Julie  and  D'Alembert  had  been 
living  under  the  same  roof  as  brother  and  sister 
several  years  when  people  first  began  to  notice  a 
change  in  Julie.  She  continued  to  entertain  her 
friends,  the  soul  of  every  company,  displaying  as 
before  her  wonderful  grace  and  tact  and  charm,  but 
there  was  a  nervousness,  a  restlessness  in  her  man- 
ner, an  occasional  showing  of  irritability  in  her 
temper.  She  grew  thinner,  paler,  sadder  than  be- 
fore. She  became  but  the  shadow  of  her  former  self. 
Pier  friends  grew  anxious  about  her.  Poor  D'Alem- 
bert's  troubled  gaze  followed  her  everywhere.  He 
sought  to  distract  her  from  he  knew  not  wliat,  to 
console  her,  to  amuse  her.  His  attempts  met  with 
no  success.  He  had  to  endure  her  coldness,  and, 
what  was  harder  still,  her  fretful  humors  full  of 
gloom  and  bitterness. 


AIADEMOLSELLE    BE  LESPINASSE.  83 

Julio  was  not  ignorant  of  the  change  in  herself. 
Sbe  sought  to  regain  the  sweet,  gentle  nature  that 
had  been  hers.  When  she  and  D'Alembert  were 
alone  together  and  she  saw  that  she  had  pained 
him  by  some  short,  hasty  word,  she  would  turn  to 
him  repentant,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  humbly 
ask  his  pardon.  Yet  even  in  those  rare  moments 
of  reconciliation,  there  was  a  barrier  between  them, 
a  barrier  which  Julie's  reserve  had  raised.  Twenty 
times  a  day  D'Alembert  determined  to  approach 
her,  to  implore  an  explanation  of  the  change  that 
had  come  over  her,  but  each  time  he  was  repelled 
by  her  countenance,  her  words,  her  silence. 

One  day  he  went  to  her  with  his  portrait  which 
he  presented  to  her  Avith  the  words,  — 

"  And  tell  yourself  sometimes  when  looking  at  me, 
Of  all  tliose  who  love  me,  who  loves  me  as  he  ?  " 

Julie  received  the  portrait  coldly,  she  called  the 
words  a  "  kindness."  The  term  stal)bed  D'Alem- 
bert like  a  sword  thrust.  Why  could  she  not  see 
all  that  he  was  to  her,  all  that  he  wished  to  be  ? 
He  stood  before  her  silent,  wounded.  Perhaps  in 
that  moment  she  divined  something  of  the  extent 
of  his  affection  und  its  steadfast  purpose.  We  can 
imagine  the  hopeless  sadness  of  the  gaze  she  turned 
upon  him.  "  Happiness  and  tranquillity,"  she  said, 
"  are  not  for  me  except  in  death."  It  may  have 
been  that  she  realized  the  great  love  there  beside 
her,  and  that  she  would  not,  could  not,  stretch  out 
her  hand  and  take  it. 


84  MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE. 

The  secret  of  the  change  in  Julie,  which  puzzled 
the  world,  which  alarmed  her  friends,  which 
D'Alembert  sought  in  vain  to  understand,  was  not 
revealed  until  the  publication  of  her  letters  to 
Guibert  after  her  death.  These  letters  are  Julie's 
secret,  they  are  Julie's  self.  In  reading  them  we 
read  something  not  found  in  books,  we  read  the 
drama  of  human  life  as  it  actually  happened,  we 
read  the  story  of  a  living,  loving,  suffering  soul 
laid  bare. 

It  is  with  this  living,  loving,  suffering  soul 
known  only  to  Guibert,  the  undeserving  man  to 
whom  the  letters  were  addi'essed,  that  we  have  now 
to  become  acquainted.  We  hesitate  on  the  thresh- 
old of  this  intimacy  to  which  the  lettei-s  admit  us. 
It  is  difficult  for  us  who  live  in  this  century,  in 
this  country,  whose  tastes  and  characters  are  as 
they  are,  to  know  how  to  approach  Julie  de  Lespi- 
nasse  so  closely.  We  can  criticise  her,  we  can  even 
smile  at  her  in  her  grand  passion.  She  is  to  our 
comprehension  so  monotonous,  so  unreal,  so  foreign. 
And  5"et,  if  we  will  but  understand  her  and  sym- 
pathize with  her  as  much  as  possible,  we  will  find 
ourselves  saying  with  her  true  and  faithful  friend 
D'Alembert,  "dear  and  unfortunate  Julie,"  and 
under  these  two  titles  forgiving  her  faults,  as  he 
against  whom  she  most  offended  forgave  them. 

Except  as  her  friendship  for  D'Alembert  may  be 
called  love,  Julie  was  approaching  middle  age 
without  having  experienced  the  tender,  or  perhaps 


MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPLYASSE.  85 

as  applied  to  lier  we  should  say  tliu  stormy,  passion. 
She  had  opened  her  salon  in  the  Jiue  de  Belle-Chasse 
and  had  been  entertaining  there  some  time  when 
she  met  Monsieur  de  Mora,  son  of  the  Spanish  am- 
bassador at  the  court  of  France.  This  Monsieur  de 
Mora  appears  to  have  been  quite  a  non-pareil  of  all 
that  is  most  estimable  and  charming.  Not  only- 
does  mademoiselle,  who  may  be  supposed  to  have 
been  slightly  partial,  eulogize  him  without  stint ; 
all  his  contemporaries  seem  to  have  vied  to  see 
who  could  the  most  eloquently  praise  him. 

Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse  loved  Monsieur  de 
Mora  and  Monsieur  de  Mora  loved  Mademoiselle  de 
Lespinasse.  Fate,  however,  was  not  kind  to  their 
love.  Monsieur  had  delicate  lungs.  His  native 
climate  was  ordered  for  him.  He  left  Paris  August, 
1772,  never  to  return.  At  the  time  of  his  departure 
mademoiselle's  love  for  him  and  his  for  her  had 
never  been  more  ardent.  They  had  parted  with 
every  promise  of  constancy  and  devotion. 

In  September  of  the  same  year  mademoiselle 
met  the  Comte  de  Guibert.  With  the  moment  of 
her  meeting  with  Guibert  the  tragedy  of  her  life 
began  —  it  was  a  struggle  between  her  two  loves, 
the  one  for  Mora,  powerful,  but  dying  slowly,  re- 
morsefully, the  other  for  Guibert,  impetuous,  irre- 
sistible, like  a  torrent  driving  everything  before  it. 

Monsieur  de  Guibert  was  a  colonel  in  the  French 
army.  He  had  entered  the  world  with  his  head 
held  high.     He  was  brilliant,  impressive,  dashing. 


86  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

Society  had  made  up  its  mind  that  he  was  destined 
for  glory.  Guibert  himself  was  of  society's  opinion. 
He  had  published  an  essay  on  war  tactics,  he  had 
competed  at  the  Academy,  he  was  composing  trage- 
dies with  which  he  intended  to  dazzle  the  world. 
He  aimed  at  replacing  the  great  writers  of  the 
past.  He  was  a  genius,  he  believed,  and  the  world 
believed  with  him.  Men  spoke  of  liim  as  "  a  soul 
which  springs  on  all  sides  towards  fame."  He 
sprang,  it  is  true,  but  he  fell.  Fame  knows  him 
now  only  as  the  man  loved  by  Mademoiselle  de 
Lespinasse. 

The  fact  that  Monsieur  de  Guibert  was  ten  years 
younger  than  mademoiselle  may  perhaps  shock  us. 
But  it  did  not  shock  Parisian  society.  In  France 
it  was  the  custom  for  young  men  entering  the 
world  to  court  the  patronage  of  certain  charming 
women,  older  and  more  experienced  than  the}-. 
The  women  on  their  part  enjoyed  the  gallantries  of 
the  young  men. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  from  this,  however,  that 
the  feelings  of  mademoiselle  for  Guibert  Avere  those 
of  these  other  women  for  their  proteges.  She  was 
not  like  the  women  of  society,  satisfied  with  being 
"  preferred,"  content  merely  "  to  amuse  and  to 
please."  "  I  live  to  love,  I  love  to  live,"  that  was 
her  motto.  "  I  love  you,"  she  told  Guibert.  "•  All 
personal  interest  is  hushed  by  those  words.  Tliat 
'  I '  of  which  Fenelon  speaks  is  a  myth.  I  feel  in 
a  positive  manner  that  I  am  not  I ;  I  am  you,  and  in 


MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE.  87 

order  to  bu  you  I  liave  no  sacrifice  to  make.  Your 
interests,  your  happiness,  your  affections,  your 
pleasure — in  tlieni,  luon  ami,  is  the  I  that  is  dear  to 
me,  that  is  within  me ;  all  else  is  external  and  for- 
eign to  me.  You  alone  in  the  universe  can  hold 
and  occupy  my  being.  My  heart,  my  soul,  can 
henceforth  be  filled  by  you  alone."  Such  senti- 
ments surely  show  that  mademoiselle  and  her  love 
for  Guibert  were  far  removed  from  the  superficial- 
ities of  women  in  society. 

Julie  began  by  believing  Guibert  to  be  all  that  is 
great  and  noble.  It  did  not  take  her  long  to  dis- 
cover how  shallow  he  was,  how  volatile,  how  insin- 
cere. However,  the  harm  was  done.  She  had 
given  him  her  heart.  Siie  could  not,  try  as  she 
might,  regain  it.  "  The  minds  of  most  women," 
she  exclaimed  with  La  Rocliefoucauld,  "seem  to 
strengthen  their  folly  rather  than  their  reason." 
With  remorse  and  loathing  she  realized  her  folly, 
she  compared  the  t^vo  men,  de  Mora,  whom  she  had 
ceased  to  love,  and  Guibert,  whom  spite  of  herself 
she  loved  always  and  entirely.  Then  with  clear- 
sighted vision  she  regarded  Guibert.  "  And  it  is 
you  who  have  made  me  guilty  toward  that  man," 
she  cried  despairingly.  "The  thought  revolts  my 
soul." 

At  length  came  the  death  of  de  Mora.  He  died 
at  Bordeaux.  Unable  to  live  without  Julie,  he  was 
returning  to  her.  He  was  faithful  to  the  last. 
Julie's  friends,  who  had  divined  that  a  very  close 


88  MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINA8SE. 

relationship  existed  between  her  and  the  Spaniard, 
came  to  her  with  protestations  of  kindness  and 
symj^athy  and  consolation.  "  They  do  me  the 
honor,"  wrote  Julie,  "  to  believe  that  I  am  crushed 
by  the  loss  that  I  have  met  with."  She  was  obliged 
to  receive  these  protestations,  conscious  all  the 
while  that  she  did  not  deserve  them.  Her  dissim- 
ulations with  D'Alembert  and  others  who  loved 
her  filled  her  with  horror.  More  than  ever  she 
judged  her  love  for  Guibert  to  be  a  crime.  Because 
of  it  she  hated  herself,  because  of  it  she  suffered 
the  "tortures  of  the  damned."  And  yet  so  dear 
was  it  to  her,  so  much  dearer  than  all  will  or  reason 
or  self-respect  or  happiness,  that  with  Phyri'us  she 
exclaimed,  "  I  yield  to  the  crime  as  a  criminal." 

Slie  abandoned  herself  unreservedly  and  utterly 
to  her  passion.  "This  soul,"  she  writes,  "carried 
away  by  an  irresistible  force,  finds  it  hard  to  curb 
and  calm  itself;  it  longs  for  you,  it  fears  you,  it 
loves  you,  it  v/anders  in  a  wilderness,  but  always  it 
belongs  to  you."  She  lived  only  to  receive  Guibert's 
letters  and  his  calls,  to  see  him  and  to  love  him. 
"  From  every  instant  of  my  life,"  she  tells  him,  "  I 
suffer,  I  love  you,  I  await  you."  And  again,  "  There 
is  nothing  I  have  not  tried  to  cheat  my  impatience," 
she  declares  ;  "  I  am  perpetuall}^  in  motion,  I  have 
been  everywhere  and  seen  everything  and  I  have 
but  one  thought." 

Guibert's  letters  were  her  every  day  desire,  more 
necessary   than   her   bread.     "  There  is  a   certain 


MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE.  89 

carrier,"  she  writes,  ''  who  for  the  List  _year  gives 
fever  to  my  souL"  She  commands  that  her  letters 
be  delivered  to  her  wherever  she  may  be.  "  What 
are  you  reading  so  earnestly  ?  "  aslvs  an  inquisitive 
neighbor  at  a  dinner  party.  "■  Is  it  some  paper  for 
Monsieur  Turgot?"  "Precisely,  madame,"  she 
replies.  "  It  is  a  memorial  I  must  give  him  pres- 
ently, and  I  wish  to  read  it  before  I  give  it  to  him." 

What  is  in  her  mind  as  she  stands  there  in  her 
salon,  surrounded  by  her  friends,  questioning,  smil- 
ing, with  an  ease  that  has  always  been  hers,  but 
with  an  added  restlessness  ?  When  the  last  guest 
has  gone,  and  she  sits  alone  in  the  late  evening, 
writing,  these  are  her  words :  "  Not  once  has  my 
door  been  opened  to-day  that  my  heart  did  not  beat ; 
there  were  moments  when  I  dreaded  to  hear  your 
name  ;  then  again  I  was  broken-hearted  at  not  hear- 
ing it.  So  many  contradictions,  so  many  conflicting 
emotions  are  true,  and  three  words  explain  them :  I 
love  you."  And  again,  "  The  long  nights,  the  loss 
of  sleep,"  she  confesses,  "  have  made  my  love  a  sort 
of  madness  ;  it  has  become  a  fixed  idea,  and  I  know 
not  how  I  have  escaped  a  score  of  times  from  utter- 
ing words  that  would  have  told  the  secret  of  my 
life  and  heart.  Sometimes  in  society  tears  over- 
take me  and  I  am  forced  to  fly." 

Once  society  had  been  a  pleasure,  a  happiness  to 
Julie.  Now  she  no  longer  enjoyed  it.  She  despised 
it.  She  spoke  of  it  with  disgust  and  loathing.  I  can- 
not understand  the  ways  of  people  in  society,"  she 


90  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPINASSE. 

writes ;  "  they  amuse  themselves  and  yawn,  they 
love  no  one.  All  that  seems  to  me  deplorable.  I 
prefer  the  torture  that  consumes  my  life  to  the 
pleasure  that  numbs  theirs."  And  again,  "  Good 
God,"  she  exclaimed,  "was  there  ever  such  pride, 
such  disdain  of  others,  such  contempt,  such  injus- 
tice, in  a  word  such  an  assemblage  of  all  that 
peojples  hell  and  lunatic  asylums?  All  that  was 
last  night  in  my  apartment  and  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ings did  not  crumble  down  —  a  miracle  !  In  the 
midst  of  the  sorry  writers,  smatterers,  fools,  and 
pedants,  I  thought  of  you  alone  and  of  your  follies  ; 
I  regretted  you,  I  longed  for  you  with  as  much 
passion  as  if  you  were  the  most  amiable  being  in 
existence." 

This  antagonism  to  society  is  explained,  as  all  else 
that  is  strange  and  incomprehensible  about  Julie  is 
explained,  by  her  love.  Her  love,  which  was  her 
cross,  her  sorrow,  left  no  room  for  the  little  joys  and 
ofriefs  of  life.  Of  her  successes  in  societvshe  wrote, 
"  From  the  moment  I  loved,  I  have  felt  disgust  for 
such  successes."  Social  disturbances  no  longer 
troubled  her.  She  was  calm  and  indifferent  in  their 
midst.  "  There  is  a  passion  of  the  soul,"  she  de- 
clared, "  which  closes  the  soul  to  all  the  miseries 
which  torture  the  world.  A  great  love  Idlls  all  the 
rest."  Her  past  misfortune,  in  itself  so  sad,  so 
pitiful,  was  forgotten.  "  I  here  avow,"  she  declared, 
"  that  there  is  no  sorrow  comparable  to  that  of  a 
deep,    unhappy   passion.     It   has   effaced   my   ten 


MADEMOISELLE  DE  LESPINASSE.  01 

years  early  torture.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  live  only 
since  I  love.  All  that  affected  me,  all  that  rendered 
me  unhappy  until  then  is  obliterated.  You  have 
jEilled  my  life.  This  sorrow,  it  is  you  hath  caused 
it ;  this  soul  of  fire  and  pain  is  your  creation." 

Social  conventions  and  impossibilities  were  no 
barriei-s  to  Julie's  love.  When  Guibert  talked  of 
marriage  (for  even  in  the  midst  of  tliis  passion  he 
dared  to  talk  of  marriage,  alleging  that  he  must 
make  a  marriage  of  convenience,  while  in  reality 
he  was  planning  to  make  one  of  love),  she  listened, 
she  criticised,  slie  advised.  "  What  I  desire  above 
all  things  is  your  happiness,"  she  told  him,  "  and 
the  means  of  procuring  it  will  be  the  chief  interest 
of  my  life."  At  length  he  mai-ried.  Julie  made 
the  acquaintance  of  his  wife,  praised  her.  The 
new  relationship  did  not  abate  mademoiselle's  pas- 
sion one  whit.  The  immensity  of  her  love  would 
admit  of  no  boundary,  no  limit. 

Julie's  love  had  robbed  her  of  her  will,  her  reason, 
her  self-respect,  her  happiness.  Gradually  it  was 
destroying  her  life.  "  The  ills  of  my  soul  have 
passed  to  my  body,"  she  writes  ;  "  I  have  fever  daily, 
and  my  physician,  who  is  the  most  skilful  of  men, 
departs,  saying:  "We  have  no  remedies  for  the 
soul." 

Her  friends,  seeing  the  "  eternal  separation,"  as 
she  expressed  it,  so  near,  gathered  round  her. 
Looking  into  their  faces,  receiving  from  them  their 
final  attentions  and  devotions,  Julie  felt  that  she 


92  MADEMOISELLE  BE  LESPl^ASSE. 

was  beholding  clear  sky,  that  she  was  nearing 
port.  Yet  her  passion  held  her  still.  To  Guibert 
on  her  last  day  she  said :  "  If  ever  I  should  return 
to  life,  I  would  again  employ  it  in  loving  you." 

On  the  night  of  her  death,  we  are  told,  all  her 
intimate  friends  were  assembled  in  her  room,  and 
"  all  were  weeping."  One  wonders  whether  Gui- 
bert was  not  the  loudest  in  his  grief.  We  know 
that  D'Alembert  was  the  quietest.  D'Alembert 
as  he  knelt  by  her  ])ed,  dejected,  dismayed,  and 
bent  his  ear  to  catch  her  whispered  word,  her  peti- 
tion for  pardon,  was  tliinking  :  "■  She  no  longer  has 
the  strength  to  speak  or  to  hear  me.  I  am  forced 
like  Phedre  to  deprive  myself  of  tears  that  might 
trouble  her  last  moments.  I  am  losing  without 
recovery  the  moment  of  nty  life  which  might  be  to 
me  the  most  precious,  that  of  telling  her  once  more 
how  dear  she  is  to  me,  how  much  I  share  her  woes, 
and  how  deeply  I  desire  to  end  my  life  with  hers. 
I  would  give  all  the  moments  that  remain  to  me 
to  be  able  in  this  instant  to  show  her  all  the  tender- 
ness of  my  heart  in  the  hope  of  regaining 
hers." 

Guibert  lamented  Julie's  death  with  extravagant 
eulogy.  He  mourned  her  as  deeply  as  one  of  his 
shallow  nature  could  mourn. 

D'Alembert  was  unconsoled  and  unconsolable  in 
his  loss.  With  Julie  gone  from  his  life,  he  felt, 
as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "  alone  in  the  uni- 
verse."    Each   time    that  he  returned   to  his  sad 


MADEMOISELLE  I)E  LESPINASSE.  93 

dwelling  his   thought  was,  ''Mo  one  is  waiting  for 
me,  no  one  will  ever  wait  for  me  again." 

Thus  ends  the  story  of  Julie  de  Lespinasse,  a 
twofold  romance,  sweet,  tender,  sorrowful.  And 
she,  the  heroine,  fades  from  before  our  eyes,  yet 
seems  to  leave  behind  a  light  bright  and  pervasive 
like  the  aureole.  We  recognize  it  as  the  light  of 
genius ;  for  it  has  been  truly  said  that  such  love  as 
constituted  the  life  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse 
is  a  form  of  genius. 


MADAME  ROLAND. 


Born  at  Paris,  March  18,  1754. 

Died  at  Paris  on  the  guillotine,  Nov.  8, 1792. 


"  Madame  Koland  is  still  the  heroine  of  the  Revolution.  It 
is  to  her  that  the  eye  instinctively  turns  for  a  type  and  symbol 
of  the  earlier  and  finer  characteristics  of  that  movement.  She 
was  the  genius  and  inspirer  of  the  men  whose  eloquence  over- 
threw the  throne  and  founded  the  Republic." —  Edward  Gilpin 
Johnson. 

I. 

THE  GIRLHOOD   OF   MADAME  ROLAND. 

Manon  Phlipon  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
pouted,  and  averted  her  eyes  from  her  parents, 
sitting  in  judgment  upon  her,  to  the  world  of  Paris 
as  it  surged  back  and  forth,  lounging,  trading, 
pleasure-seeking  on  the  Pont  Neuf  beneath  her 
window.  It  was  the  eternal  question  that  was 
being  urged —  her  marriage.  This  time  papa 
would  have  her  accept  the  proposals  of  some  trades- 
man. Her  foot  tapped  the  floor  indignantly.  Her 
eyebrows  went  up  contemptuously.  Had  she  read 
Plutarch  and  the  philosophers  only  to  become  the 
wife  of  a  man  bent  upon  getting  rich  and  on  cut- 
ting a  good  figure  in  his  ([uarter  ? 

94 


MADAME    ROLAND. 
From  a  painting  by  Goupil. 


MADAME  ROLAND.  95 

At  length  papa's  voice  sounded  behind  lier, 
puzzled,  ironic,  and  withal  amused.  "  What  kind 
of  a  man  will  suit  you,  Manon  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Manon  turned  from  the  window  and  faced  her 
father.  She  was  an  intrepid  looking  little  woman, 
short  in  stature,  but  of  an  erect,  dauntless  carriage. 
Of  delicate,  spirited  features,  dark-eyed,  dark- 
haired,  with  a  fresh  color  glowing  in  her  cheeks, 
and  of  a  pretty  roundness  of  figure,  she  was  as 
handsome  as  she  was  intrepid  looking. 

"  I  don't  know,  papa,"  she  answered,  "  but  it  will 
never  be  any  one  with  whom  I  cannot  share  my 
thoughts  and  sentiments.  I  believe  there  is  no 
happiness  in  marriage  except  where  hearts  are 
closely  united."  As  she  spoke  directly,  earnestly, 
enthusiasm  and  a  multitude  of  youthful  dreams 
and  fancies  were  shining  in  her  eyes. 

Monsieur  Phlipon,  however,  did  not  see  the 
enthusiasm,  the  youthful  dreams  and  fancies.  And 
had  he  seen  them,  he  would  not  have  understood  ; 
his  soul  inhabited  another  region  than  that  in 
which  his  daughter's  had  its  dwelling.  He  ran  his 
fingers  perplexedly  through  his  hair. 

"  You  think  there  is  no  one  in  business  good 
enough  for  you,"  he  demurred.  "  Is  it  a  lawyer 
that  you  want?  Women  are  never  happy  with 
such  men ;  they  are  bad  tempered  and  have  very 
little  money." 

"But,  papa,"  interposed  his  daughter,  with  a 
slight  gesture  of  impatience,  "  I  shall  never  marry 


96  MADAME  ROLAND. 

anybody  for  his  gown.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I 
want  a  man  of  such  and  such  a  profession,  but  a 
man  that  I  can  love." 

"  If  I  understand  you,  you  believe  that  such  a 
man  cannot  be  found  in  business." 

"  I  confess  that  seems  to  me  very  probable.  I 
have  never  found  any  one  there  to  my  taste.  And 
then,  business  itself  disgusts  me." 

The  furrows  deepened  on  Monsieur  Phlipon's 
brow.  "  Nevertheless,"  he  asserted,  "  it  is  a  very 
pleasant  thing  to  live  tranquilly  at  home,  while 
one's  husband  carries  on  a  good  business.  Look 
at  L.'s  wife.  Don't  you  think  that  she  is  happy? 
Her  husband  has  just  gone  out  of  business.  He 
has  bought  a  large  property.  Their  house  is  well 
kept.     They  see  a  great  deal  of  good  society." 

"I  cannot  judge  of  the  happiness  of  others," 
Manon  sighed,  wearily.  "Mine,  however,  will 
never  depend  on  wealth." 

Her  father  rose  from  his  chair.  It  appeared  he 
liad  had  enough  of  this  foolish  talk. 

"  You  are  making  matters  very  difficult  for  your- 
self, Manon,"  he  said,  a  little  sternly.  "  What  if 
you  do  not  find  your  ideal  ?  " 

"  I  shall  die  an  old  maid,"  was  the  unflinching 
reply. 

"Perhaps  that  will  be  harder  than  you  think. 
However,  you  still  have  time.  But  remember,  one 
day  3-0U  will  be  alone,  the  crowd  of  suitors  will 
end — you  know  the  fable." 


MADAME  ROLAND.  97 

"  Oh,  I  sluill  revenge  myself  by  meriting  happi- 
ness ;  injustice  cannot  deprive  me  of  it." 

Monsieur  Phlipon  lifted  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  there 
you  go  in  the  clouds,"  he  exclaimed  despairingly, 
compassionately.     Abruptly  he  left  the  room. 

Alone  with  her  mother,  Manon  drew  a  hassock 
to  her  mother's  feet,  seated  herself  upon  it,  and 
gazed  up  lovingly,  a  bit  contritely  into  Madame 
Phlipon's  face. 

"  Do  you,  too,  think  me  a  naughty,  stubborn  girl?  " 
she  queried.  "Do  you,  too,  believe  tliat  it  is  my 
duty  to  marry  this  man  whom  I  do  not  love  ?" 

Madame  Phlipon  did  not  answer  immediately. 
She  sat  looking  with  a  melancholy  tenderness  into 
the  earnest  face  upturned  to  hers.  With  a  gentle 
caress,  rare  in  a  woman  of  her  undemonstrative 
nature,  she  touched  her  daughter's  cheek. 

"He  has  a  great  reputation  for  integrity  and 
regular  habits,"  she  urged.  "  He  is  acquainted 
with  your  singular  ways  of  thinking,  professes 
high  esteem  for  you,  and  will  be  proud  to  follow 
your  counsels."  And  in  a  lighter,  almost  a  playful 
tone,  she  added,  "  You  will  have  him  in  leading 
strings,  my  dear." 

Manon  pouted  and  dropped  her  eyes,  fingering 
the  border  of  her  mother's  apron.  "But  I  do  not 
w^ant  a  husband  that  must  be  led,"  she  protested. 
"He  would  be  too  unwieldly  a  child." 

Her  mother  smiled.  "  You  are  a  funny  girl, 
Manon,"  she  said.  "  You  will  not  have  a  master, 
yet  you  will  not  rule." 


98  MADAME   ROLAND. 

"  Understand  me,  dear  mamma,"  quickly,  eagerly, 
interposed  the  girl.  "  I  would  marry  a  man  wor- 
thy of  my  esteem,  one  with  whose  will  a  compli- 
ance would  be  no  disgrace  to  me  and  who  would 
not  find  his  happiness  lessened  by  complying  with 
mine." 

Madame  Phlipon  sighed  and  shook  her  head 
doubtfully.  "  Not  so  often  as  you  imagine,  my 
dear  child,  is  happiness  composed  of  this  perfection 
of  congeniality.  If  happiness  depended  upon  noth- 
ing else,  there  would  be  little  of  it  found  in  our 
marriages." 

"  Then  there  would  be  few  that  I  should  envy," 
declared  Manon  in  her  most  decisive  tone. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  acquiesced  her  mother.  "  And 
yet,  among  the  marriages  that  you  despise,  there 
may  be  many  preferable  to  a  single  state."  Mad- 
ame Phlipon's  gaze  wandered  from  her  daughter. 
A  strange,  far-away  look  was  in  her  eyes.  And 
when  she  spoke  again,  which  was  after  a  brief 
pause,  it  was  in  a  sad  voice,  but  very  quietly  and 
gently.  "  I  may  be  called  out  of  the  world  soon," 
she  said.  "  You  will  be  left  alone  with  your  father. 
He  is  still  young.  Many  changes  may  occur  in 
the  home  where  you  have  been  so  happy.  My  ten- 
derness makes  me  fear  for  you.  It  would  make  my 
last  moments  easy  could  I  see  you  married  before  I 
die  to  a  worthy  man." 

Madame  Phlipon's  words  terrified  Manon.  She 
had  not  thought  of  the  future,  or  of  the  possibility 


MADAME   ROLAND.  99 

of  losing  her  mother ;  her  mother  who  was  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own  life.  She  sat  motionless,  gaz- 
ing at  her  mother  in  an  agony  of  new-born  doubts 
and  fears. 

Her  mother,  seeing  tlie  trouble  in  her  eyes, 
sought  to  comfort  her,  and  turned  upon  her  a  faint, 
reassuring  smile.  Before  the  smile,  Manon's  self- 
control  gave  way.  She  knelt  beside  her  mother 
and  clung  to  her,  weeping  passionately. 

"  Why  are  you  so  alarmed,  my  dear  child?" 
asked  her  mother  calmly,  soothingly.  "  We  must 
weigh  possibilities.  In  health  we  must  provide 
ourselves  with  consolations  for  the  time  of  sickness 
and  death.  The  present  occasion  furnishes  us 
with  an  opportunity  for  such  consolation.  A  wor- 
thy man  offers  you  his  hand.  You  will  not  always 
have  me  with  you.  Do  not  reject  a  husband  who, 
it  is  true,  may  not  be  your  ideal,  but  who  will  love 
and  cherish  you,  and  with  whom  you  may  be 
happy." 

Manon  lifted  her  head  from  her  mother's  shoul- 
der and  gazed  at  her  sorrowfully  through  her  tears. 
"  Yes,  my  dear  mamma,"  she  exclaimed  in  gentle 
irony,  "  as  happy  as  you  have  been  !  " 

Madame  Phlipon  could  make  no  reply.  Manon 
had  arrived  at  the  unanswerable.  Madame  must 
hold  her  peace.  She  pressed  her  hands  tremu- 
lously together  and  looked  away.  She  had  ex- 
pressed herself  for  the  last  time  upon  the  subject  of 
Manon's  marriage.     Never  did  she  refer  to  it  again. 


too  MADAME  EOLAND. 

Manon  had  spoken  impetuously,  like  one  im- 
pelled by  a  sudden  and  strong  conviction.  She 
had  always  been  a  silent  ^vitness  of  the  disparity 
that  existed  between  her  parents.  But  the  perfect 
peace  that  reigned  in  her  home  had  seemed  to  her 
the  symbol  of  happiness.  It  was  not  until  recently, 
when  her  own  dawning  womanhood  was  quicken- 
ing her  powers  of  perception  and  understanding, 
that  she  had  come  to  realize  at  what  a  cost  her 
mother  was  maintaining  this  domestic  calm.  She 
observed  that,  in  the  family  discussions,  when  her 
mother  was  unable  to  carry  her  point,  she  appeared 
to  yield  it,  without  a  scruple  —  and  this,  when  she 
was  unquestionably  in  the  right.  Manon's  love  of 
justice  was  violated,  her  indignation  was  aroused. 
She  constituted  herself  her  mother's  "  watch-dog," 
as  she  expressed  it.  She  took  her  part  in  the  fam- 
ily debates,  became  her  sturdy  and  unflinching 
advocate.  Yet  it  was  only  when  the  family  was 
united  that  Manon  assumed  the  partisan  role.  In 
his  absence  Monsieur  Phlipon  was  nothing  less 
than  the  beloved  husband  and  father.  Manon  and 
her  mother  never  spoke  of  him  except  in  commen- 
dation. "Yes,  my  dear  mamma,  as  happy  as  you 
have  been ! "  Those  words,  that  tone  of  irony, 
were  Manon's  first  criticism  of  her  father.  And  by 
her  silence,  her  tremulous  gesture,  and  her  averted 
glance,  for  the  first  time  Madame  Phlipon  re- 
proached her  husband. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  because  of 


MADAME  EOLAND.  101 

this  cloud  tlmt  overhung  tlie  Phlipou  lionie,  that 
the  sun  did  not  shine  there.  The  Phlipons  had 
their  sunshine  as  well  as  other  folks.  One  has  only 
to  read  that  charming  recoid  of  a  girlhood,  which 
Manon  wrote  in  later  days  behind  her  prison  bars, 
to  appreciate  the  pleasant,  cheerful,  serene  beauty 
of  that  sunshine.  It  is  a  delight  to  pass  into  its 
beauty  with  Manon,  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
her  family  and  friends,  to  become  the  confidant  of 
her  high  thoughts  and  her  romantic  visions,  to  live 
with  her  her  active,  intelligent,  and  truly  noble 
life. 

Manon  spoke  of  herself  as  a  child  of  the  Seine. 
The  house  in  which  her  father,  an  engraver  by 
trade,  had  his  shop  and  dwelling  faced  the  river 
and  looked  upon  the  ever  new  and  ever  shifting 
pictures  of  the  Pont  Neuf  and  the  Quai  de  THor- 
loge.  Her  own  little  window  opened  to  the  north. 
Before  it,  at  the  close  of  every  day,  Manon  kneeled. 
Her  eyes  sought  the  vast  expanse  of  blue,  stretch- 
ing from  the  cool  east  to  the  west,  where  the  roofs 
and  tree-tops  of  Chaillot  were  glowing  in  the 
warmth  of  the  setting  sun.  The  view  of  the 
heavens,  the  sense  of  God's  nearness,  and  joy  in  her 
own  existence  awoke  in  her  young  soul  an  emotion 
so  overwhelming  that  tears  filled  her  eyes.  She 
felt  the  gift  of  her  life  to  be  inexpressibly  precious. 
She  longed  to  make  of  it  something  strong  and 
noble.  Her  imagination  soared  to  the  heights 
where  the  martyrs  and  heroes  had  trod. 


102  MADAME  ROLAND. 

We  may  be  grateful  for  this  glimpse  of  Mauon 
kneeling  at  her  chamber  Avindow.  We  are  behold- 
ing a  great  spirit  in  its  early  spring,  its  "  time  of 
blossoming,"  its  "  hour  of  beauty,"  as  the  Greeks 
called  it.  Manon  came,  in  time,  to  climb  those 
heights  whither  her  imagination  was  so  loftily 
pointing  her  the  way.  We  shall  admire  her  when 
she  has  attamed  those  heights.  Yet  will  we  ever 
find  her  so  lovable,  so  pure,  so  utterly  unworldly 
and  unspoiled  as  now  ? 

Marie  Jeanne  Phlipon,  as  she  was  christened, 
was  a  heroic  little  person.  But,  we  are  glad  to 
discover,  she  was  as  real  and  natural  as  she  was 
heroic.  She  had  her  times  of  being  naughty  like 
ordinary  little  girls.  At  such  times  it  was  not  her 
father's  whippings  that  reformed  her.  It  was  the 
word  "  mademoiselle  "  spoken  by  her  mother  in  a 
stern  tone  and  with  a  displeased  expression.  The 
whippings  INIanon  received  in  silent  indigna- 
tion. But  to  hear  herself  called  "  mademoiselle  " 
in  that  tone,  with  that  accompanying  look,  she  could 
not  endure.  In  order  to  bring  back  the  smile  to 
her  mother's  face  and  the  tenderness  to  her  voice, 
and  to  hear  again  the  fond  little  nickname  "  Manon," 
she  became  at  once  a  repentant  and  obedient 
daughter. 

By  the  time  she  was  four  years  old  Manon  had 
learned  to  read.  Her  parents  were  delighted  with 
her  precocity.  She  was  their  only  child,  their  cliief 
interest.     They  spared  no  pains  to  give  her  an  ex- 


MADAME  ROLAND.  10;-. 

cellent  education.  She  wa.s  placed  under  the 
instruction  of  able  masters,  one  to  teach  her  writ- 
ing, history,  and  geography,  another  for  the  piano, 
another  for  the  guitar,  another  for  dancing.  Her 
father  himself  taught  her  drawing. 

Manon  fouiid  learning  a  pleasure.  Often  in  the 
early  morning,  impelled  b}'  her  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge, she  would  steal  out  of  bed  and  into  the  al- 
cove that  opened  out  of  the  family  parlor  and  that 
served  as  her  study.  There  she  would  sit,  bare- 
footed, clothed  only  in  her  little  night-gown,  con- 
ning her  lessons  and  writing  her  exercises. 

Madame  Phlipon  was  a  devout  Catholic,  and 
Manon  early  received  her  instruction  in  church 
ritual.  She  was  sent  to  the  catechism  class  at  the 
parish  church,  and,  to  the  delight  of  her  uncle 
Bimont,  a  young  cure  of  the  parish,  in  charge  of  the 
class,  she  carried  off  all  the  prizes.  Several  amus- 
ing stories  are  told  apropos  of  her  "  theological 
erudition."  In  one  of  these  stories  we  behold 
Manon  calmly  and  glibly  recounting  the  order  of 
spirits  in  the  celestial  hierarchy.  We  are  not 
surprised  to  hear  that  the  eyes  of  the  visiting 
rector  opened  wide  in  amazement.  In  another 
story  Manon  appears,  a  charming  brunette  little 
maiden,  perched  on  the  knee  of  her  father's  guest, 
relating  with  a  solemnity  suitable  to  the  subject, 
the  whole  of  the  Athanasian  creed.  Truly  the 
child  merited  her  reward,  which  came  in  the  form 
of  a  narration  by  her  father's  guest,  of  the  wonderful 


104  MADAME  BOLAND. 

tale  of  Tanger  whose  nose  was  «o  long  that  he  was 
obliged,  when  he  walked,  to  twist  it  round  his 
arm.  It  is  a  relief  to  find  Manoii  making  the 
acquaintance  of  this  gentleman  of  fabulous  nose. 
He  must  have  been  something  of  a  comfort  after 
the  creeds  and  spirits  and  celestial  hierarch}-  with 
which  her  iiifant  mind  Avas  fed. 

At  the  same  time  that  Manon  was  learning  all 
that  her  masters  and  the  yoiuig  cure,  her  uncle 
could  teach  her,  she  was  receiving  instruction  of 
another  sort  from  her  mother.  She  was  being 
initiated  in  the  arts  and  crafts  of  the  kitchen. 
She  made  omelets,  she  picked  herbs,  she  skimmed 
the  pot,  and  many  a  morning  saw  her  trudging  to 
the  greengrocer's  and  purchasing,  in  that  sedate 
manner  which  she  had  borrowed  from  her  mamma, 
the  parsley  or  the  salad  that  the  servant  had  for- 
gotten. 

When  Manon  went  to  the  greengrocer's  she  was 
always  very  plainly  dressed.  But  on  Sundays  and 
fete  days  she  appeared  in  the  costume  of  a  truly 
"grand"  lady.  Little  girls  in  her  day  and  in  her 
quarter  did  not  dress  like  little  girls ;  they  were 
their  mammas  in  miniature.  Tight-fitting  waist, 
long  train,  and  fancy  trimmings  were  the  essentials 
of  Manon's  "  Sunday  best."  On  Sundays  Manon 
carried  her  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  and  on  those 
fete  days  that  meant  a  birthday  or  a  wedding,  or 
a  christening  in  the  family,  she  took  with  her 
some  sample  of  her  own  work,  a  head  that  she  had 


MADAME  EOLAND.  106 

drawn,  or  a  copperplate  engraving  accompanied 
with  complimentary  verse  and  nosegay. 

Outwardly,  you  see,  Manon's  life  was  very  simple 
and  humdrum,  similar  to  that  of  any  member  of 
her  class,  a  class  which  at  tliat  time  was  called  the 
"  bourgeois "  of  Paris.  It  was  only  inwardly,  hi 
that  which  had  to  do  with  her  thoughts,  her  mind, 
her  spirit,  that  her  life  was  at  all  remarkable. 

Manon's  chief  stimulus  to  this  inner  life  that  she 
was  leading  came  from  her  readhig.  She  loved  her 
books.  Notliing  but  the  promise  of  a  flower  could 
tenipt  her  from  them.  Her  father's  libraiy  offered 
attractions  of  a  most  conglomerate  sort  — a  history 
of  Turkey,  a  treatise  on  heraldry,  the  "  Memoirs  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier,"  the  "  Civil  Wars  of 
Appias,"  the  Bible  in  old  French,  of  which  she  was 
very  fond,  and  the  "  Lives  of  the  Saints."  This  latter 
volume  was  a  great  favorite  with  her.  She  used 
to  dream  over  its  pages,  sighing  for  the  times  when 
the  Christians,  oppressed  and  persecuted  by  the 
pagans,  attained  the  glory  of  the  martyr's  crown. 

Her  father's  library,  however,  could  not  satisfy 
Manon.  Having  conquered  the  little  world  of 
literature  therein  contained,  like  Alexander, 
she  looked  about  for  other  and  greater  worlds. 
One  among  her  father's  apprentices,  it  chanced, 
was  a  reader.  He  used  to  bring  his  books  to  the 
shop  with  him  and  keep  them  in  a  secret  corner  of 
the  studio,  the  "  atelier  "  the  room  was  called.  In 
a    happ}^   moment   Manon   discovered   the   secret 


106  MADAME  BOLAyn. 

corner.  Then  began  a  coui"se  of  stealthy  and 
systematic  borrowing.  One  by  one  Manon  took 
the  books  and  read  them  and  returned  them.  If 
the  young  man  was  aware  that  his  secret  corner 
had  a  constant  visitor,  he  kept  the  knowledge  to 
himself.  Manon  was  permitted  to  go  on  her  way, 
along  the  j)ath  of  knowledge,  unmolested.  Thus 
she  became  acquainted  with  Fenelon  and  Tasso 
and  portions  of  Voltaire,  and  with  a  book  that 
took  possession  of  her  soul  as  no  other  book  had 
ever  done.  This  book  was  "  Plutarch's  Lives." 
As  she  read  she  became  the  disciple  of  Cato  and 
Socrates  and  Brutus.  She  was  a  republican 
with  them.  The  book  was  her  constant  compan- 
ion. On  Sundays,  even,  she  could  not  be  parted 
from  it,  and  all  through  one  Lent  she  carried 
it  to  church  with  her,  in  lieu  of  her  prayer-book, 
and  read  it  during  service. 

Close  intercourse  with  the  Christian  saints  and 
the  heroes  of  antiquity,  with  lives  spent  in  self- 
abnegation  and  in  the  pursuit  of  high  ideals,  pro- 
duced in  Manon  a  state  of  exaltation  and  spiritual 
awe.  The  mystical  rites  of  the  church  appealed 
deeply  to  her.  As  the  time  for  her  first  communion 
drew  near,  and  its  solemn  meaning  was  impressed 
upon  her  by  friends  and  cure,  she  aspired  to  pre- 
pare herself  by  some  act  of  devotion  and  sacrifice. 
Separation  from  her  mother  seemed  to  her  the 
heaviest  cross  and  so,  she  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that  was  the  one  that  she  must  take  up  and  carry. 


MADAME   ROLAND.  107 

One  evening  she  surprised  licr  jnireuts  b}"  appear- 
ing suddenly  before  them  and  tearfully,  zealously 
imploring  that  she  be  permitted  to  enter  a  eonvent 
and  prepare  for  the  saerament. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Marion  Phlipon  became 
an  inmate  of  the  Congregation.  For  a  year  she 
dwelt  in  its  pure,  serene  atmosphere,  continuing 
with  her  studies,  wiiming  the  love  of  the  young 
girls,  her  schoolmates,  and  of  the  holy  sisters,  her 
directors,  and  coming  in  time,  after  a  period  of 
prayer  and  meditation  and  exhortation,  to  receive 
her  first  communion.  Her  hours  of  recreation  she 
used  to  pass  reading  and  dreaming  in  the  quiet 
convent  garden,  amid  the  breezes  and  the  bright 
foliage  and  the  sweet-smelling  flowers.  Often  she 
would  leave  the  garden  to  kneel  in  the  dimly 
lighted  chapel  and  listen  to  the  chanting  of  the 
choir  and  the  roll  of  the  organ,  and  at  such 
times,  her  heart  full  of  gratitude  and  adoration, 
would  speak  a  silent  word  to  God. 

Manon  was  of  too  serious  a  nature  to  make 
friends  readily.  For  the  first  part  of  her  stay  at 
the  Congregation  her  only  intimate  was  Sister 
Agathe,  one  of  the  lay  sisters,  who  served  Manon 
at  table,  and  made  her  bed,  and  was  kindness 
itself  to  her.  She  admitted  Manon  to  the  privacy 
of  her  little  cell,  to  her  books  and  her  canary. 
There  was  something  very  pretty  in  this  friendship 
between  Manon  and  the  poor  nun.  It  is  pleasant 
to  know  that  it  endured  to  the  close  of  Manon's 


108  MADAME  BOLANB. 

life  and  was  a  comfort  to  her  in  the  dark  days  just 
before  the  end. 

The  chief  friendship  of  Manon's  convent  days, 
however,  was  not  this  one  with  Sister  Aeathe.  It 
was  with  a  young  girl  who  came  to  the  Congrega- 
tion when  Manon  had  been  living  there  some 
months.  The  girl's  name  was  Sophie  Cannet. 
She  aiTived  at  the  convent  one  evening  with  her 
sister.  i\Ianon  was  first  attracted  to  her  because  of 
the  sensibility  she  showed  in  parting  from  her 
mother.  Later,  as  she  came  to  know  Sophie  better, 
she  loved  her  for  her  calmness  and  her  coolness 
and  her  intelligence  of  mind.  She  did  not  like 
Heuriette,  the  other  sister,  so  well ;  she  was  older 
and  she  was  gay  and  frivolous,  almost  too  much 
so,  Manon  thought.  Manon  attached  herself  to 
Sophie  with  all  the  fervor  of  her  fervent  nature. 
In  the  society  of  others  she  had  always  worn  a 
"  veil,"  as  she  expressed  it.  With  Sophie  she  put 
off  the  veil ;  she  was  frankness  itself.  Sophie  was 
devout  like  Manon  and  as  serious-minded  as  she. 
In  character  and  tastes  the  two  girls  were  very  con- 
genial. They  worked  and  read  and  talked  together. 
Their  attachment  was  an  ideal  one,  in  which  what, 
ever  was  most  intimate,  most  intellectual,  most 
spiritual  in  the  lives  of  both  was  shared.  They 
lived,  one  might  say,  each  in  the  other's  thoughts. 
Throughout  the  convent  they  came  to  be  known 
as  "  the  inseparables." 

At  length  Manon's  vear  of  residence  at  the  Con- 


MADAME  ROLAND.  109 

gregation  drew  to  a  close.  Manoi)  did  not  leave 
the  convent  without  regrets,  regrets  for  those 
whom  she  was  leaving,  the  sisterhood  of  nuns,  the 
devoted  Agathe,  and  lier  beloved  Sophie.  There 
were  tears  when  the  final  parting  came,  promises 
of  reunion,  and  protestations  of  enduring  affection. 

Manon  returned  to  her  parents  and  to  the  world. 
She  carried  away  from  the  convent  with  her  a 
strengthened  faith  and  piety,  and  a  secret  resolve 
that,  when  she  came  of  age,  she  would  consecrate 
herself  to  the  religious  life.  Saint  Francis  of  Sales 
had  made  a  conquest  of  her  heart.  She  deter- 
mined to  make  him  her  patron. 

Circumstances,  however,  were  conspiring  to  turn 
Manon  from  her  choice  of  the  religious  life.  The 
world  was  before  her.  Distractions,  pleasures,  and 
a  wider  langc  of  reading  v/ere  awaiting  her.  She 
was  entering  her  teens,  she  was  opening  her  eyes, 
she  was  touching  life  at  various  points  and  dis- 
covering its  complex  character. 

On  Sundays  and  fete  days  Manon  went  to  walk 
with  her  papa  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  the 
alleys  of  Saint  Cloud.  She  could  not  but  observe 
that  the  people  whom  she  met  regarded  her  with 
admiration.  She  heard  their  flattering  comments. 
She  awoke  to  the  fact  that  she  was  pretty. 

Monsieur  Phlipon,  as  may  be  imagined,  was 
very  proud  of  his  attractive  young  companion.  He 
always  introduced  her  with  a  flourish.  "  Tliis  is 
my  daughter,"  he  would  proclaim  with  an  air  of 


110  MADAME  ROLAND. 

triumph,  and  when  she  spoke,  his  expression 
seemed  to  say,  *'  There  !  Isn't  she  bright?  Isn't 
she  clever  ?  "  His  pride  touclied  yet  embarrassed 
Manon.  She  was  glad  of  it,  as  a  proof  of  his  love 
for  her,  but  she  wished  that  it  was  not  so  evident. 

Manon  could  forgive  her  father's  pride  in  her, 
but  she  could  not  forgive  the  vanity  which  she 
discovered  taking  root  in  her  own  heart.  After 
these  pleasure-walks  with  her  papa,  she  sat  in 
judgment  on  herself.  With  a  contemptuous  shrug, 
she  admitted  that  she  had  been  elated  by  the  ad- 
miring glances,  the  flattering  comments  of  the 
crowd,  that  she  had  been  happy  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  becoming  holiday  attire  and  her  own 
good  looks.  Stern  little  moralist,  she  scorned  her- 
self. Had  she  been  born,  endowed  with  mind  and 
soul,  merely  to  glitter  to  the  eye  like  the  flowers  of 
a  parterre  ?  In  righteous  wrath  she  determined  to 
make  war  upon  this  "  enemy  "  of  hers,  this  vanit3^ 
She  swore  against  it  "implacable  hostility."  She 
"  traced  it  in  its  windings."  She  entered  upon  a 
holy  crusade  against  "  the  abominable  me." 

When  on  the  next  fete  day  papa  proposed  a 
jaunt  to  St.  Cloud,  she  shook  her  head. 

"  The  fountains  are  to  play.  There  will  be  a 
world  of  company,"  he  urged. 

But  the  little  stoic  shook  her  head.  "  Dear  jjapa," 
she  said,  "  I  would  like  better  to  go  to  Mendon." 

At  Mendon  nature  ran  wild.  There  a  forest  of 
trees  was  to  be  found,  the  branches  of  the  spotted 


MADAME   TtOLANJ).  Ill 

fern,  and  the  flowers  of  the  gay  woodbine.  The 
place  had  few  visitors  save  the  birds  and  the  swift- 
footed  fawns.  Manon  loved  Mendon,  its  solitude 
and  its  uncultivated  beauty.  While  her  father 
and  mother  lay  taking  their  naps  on  the  turf  and 
the  fallen  leaves,  she  sat  beside  them  watching 
the  lights  and  shadows,  learning  the  lessons  taught 
by  the  trees  and  the  flowers.  At  such  moments 
she  was  nearer  in  spirit  to  the  mysticism  of  the 
convent  than  to  the  glitter  of  St.  Cloud.  She  had 
slain  her  "  implacable  "  enemy — vanity.  She  was 
triumphant  over  the  "  abominable  me." 

Spite  of  these  soul-inspiring  sojourns  to  Mendon, 
however,  and  spite  of  her  triumphant  stoicism,  the 
world  continued  to  close  about  Manon.  Her  visits 
with  her  relatives,  as  well  as  her  walks  to  St.  Cloud, 
were  sliowing  her  life.  She  was  learning  to  know 
people,  their  relations  to  one  another,  their  various 
ranks  and  grades. 

Much  of  Manon's  time  was  spent  with  her 
grandma  Phlipon,  on  the  island  of  St.  Louis.  The 
grandma  was  a  bright,  gay,  vivacious  little  lady. 
Manon  was  very  fond  of  her.  One  day  grandma 
and  granddaughter  went  together  to  make  a  call 
upon  a  rich  and  so-called  "  great "  lady,  in  whose 
house  the  grrandma  had  once  been  a  governess. 
Manon  observed  that  the  servants  of  the  house 
dared  to  compliment  her  in  what  seemed  to  her 
a  too  familiar  manner ;  that  the  great  lady  seated 
under  her  "  canopy,"  berouged,  beruffled,  and  be- 


112  MADAME  ROLAND. 

wigged,  •■'  presumed,"  so  Manon  termed  it,  to  pat- 
ronize her  and  her  grandmamma.  Her  republican 
little  soul  was  stirred.  She  averted  her  eyes  from 
the  servants  and  the  great  lady,  and  studied  the 
furniture  and  the  decorations  of  the  room. 

"You  have  a  lucky  hand,"  said  the  great  lady, 
Madame  de  Boismorel,  to  Manon.  "  Did  you  ever 
try  it  in  a  lottery  ?  " 

"  Never,  madarae,  I  am  not  fond  of  gaming." 

"  So  !  Indeed  !  'T  is  a  serious  little  girl  this. 
You  are  of  a  devotional  turn,  are  you  not,  my 
dear?" 

"  I  know  my  duty  to  God,  and  I  try  to  do  it." 

"  That  is  a  good  girl.  You  wish  to  take  the  veil, 
is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  my  secret  destiny  and  I  do  not 
seek  to  penetrate  it." 

Manon's  cheeks  were  flaming,  her  heart  was 
thumping  violently.  What  right  had  this  vain, 
vulgar  person  to  pry  into  her  innermost  life,  to 
treat  her  noble  sentiments  so  coldly  and  iron- 
ically? She  was  relieved,  indeed,  when  at  length 
grandma  rose  from  her  chair,  and  she  knew  that 
the  call  was  at  an  end. 

On  the  way  home  she  did  not  once  refer  to  the 
call,  but  she  thought  a  great  deal  about  it.  Then 
there  was  in  the  world  a  superiority  other  than  that 
of  virtue  and  talent,  she  reflected.  She  and  her 
grandma,  it  appeared,  were  the  inferioi-s  of  that  dis- 
agreeable woman ;  they  had  been  subjected  to  her 


MADAME  ROLAND.  113 

patronage,  a  patronage  Avliicli  lier  grandma  seemed 
not  to  mind,  but  to  accept  nitliur  as  her  just  due. 
Manon  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it  aU.  She  was 
indignant,  she  was  rebellious.  Alone  in  her  own 
room  she  hurried  to  her  books  and  sought  to  for- 
get in  reading  of  "  the  good  and  the  true  "  what 
she  had  seen  demonstrated  of  "  the  wrong  and  the 
untrue." 

But  she  could  not  be  forever  reading,  forever 
sitting  grave  and  thoughtful  in  her  little  room. 
She  must  live  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  living, 
she  must  behold  the  vanities  that  were  on  every  side. 
She  went  with  her  mother  and  her  uncle  Bimont 
to  the  court  at  Versailles.  Through  the  courtesy 
of  her  masters  and  her  relatives  she  attended  the 
gatherings  of  helle  esprits  so  prevalent  at  Paris. 
Everywhere  she  saw  things  to  shock  and  disgust 
her.  She  criticised  the  grandeur  of  the  king,  the 
extravagance  of  court  institutions,  and  decided 
that  "  had  she  been  given  a  choice  before  coming 
into  the  world,  she  would  have  chosen  a  republic 
in  preference  to  a  kingdom."  She  turned  up  her 
nose  at  much  that  came  under  her  notice  in  the  gath- 
erings of  helle  esprits.  She  immediately  detected 
the  pretention  and  conceit  of  those  who  read  verses 
and  portraits,  and  the  insincerity  of  those  who  ap- 
plauded. Yet  little  by  little,  her  lofty  contempt 
was  abating.  As  she  grew  in  worldly  wisdom,  she 
grew  more  tolerant.  "  The  longer  I  live  the  more 
I   study   and   observe,"  she  declared ;  "  the  more 


114  MADA.VE    n GLAND. 

deeply  I  feel  that  we  ought  to  be  indulgent  to  our 
fellows." 

The  truth  was,  Manon  had  become  a  very- 
rational  and  free-thinking  young  woman.  She 
had  departed  a  long  distance  from  the  mysticism  of 
her  convent  days.  She  had  passed  through  all 
stages  of  religious  belief,  had  been  in  turn  Jansen- 
ist,  deist,  theist,  sceptic,  and  idealist.  At  length 
she  had  attained  a  broad,  philosophic  state  of  mind 
which  she  never  forsook.  She  believed  in  God 
and  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  These  were  her 
only  dogmas  and  they  made  her  happy.  She  was 
convinced  that  it  was  to  her  own  and  her  neigh- 
bor's interest  to  do  right.  This  was  her  only  moral 
code  and  it  made  her  virtuous. 

It  was  by  reading  that  Manon  was  helped  to 
that  broad  philosophic  state  of  mind  which  she 
had  attained.  Manon  was  everywhere  on  the  look- 
out for  books,  at  the  houses  of  her  friends,  at  the 
circulating  libraries.  She  read  widely,  she  read 
intelligently.  Her  cure,  anxious  to  preserve  the 
faith  of  his  young  parishioner,  lent  her  the  works 
of  the  defenders  of  the  church.  She  read  them 
and  then,  when  she  had  finished,  she  turned  her 
attention  to  the  books  which  these  defenders  of  the 
church  refuted,  the  productions  of  Diderot, 
d'Alembert  and  Raynal,  the  literature  of  the 
encyclopedists.  Dogmatic  and  philosophic  thought 
interested  her  especially.  But  she  enjoyed  also 
that   which    was     distinctly    literary.     She    read 


MADAME   llOLANl).  llf) 

Bossiiet,  Fenelon,  Madame  cle  Sevigne,  and  Don 
Quixote. 

Some  of  Manon's  pleasantest  reading  was  done 
during  numerous  backgammon  parties  at  the  house 
of  a  certain  abbe,  a  friend  of  her  uncle  Bimont. 
While  her  mother  and  uncle  were  engaged  agree- 
ably at  the  board  with  the  abbe  and  his  housekeeper, 
Manon  browsed  in  the  abbe's  library.  She  found 
many  rare  treats  among  his  books.  Therefore, 
though  she  disliked  card  playing,  she  was  always 
sorry  when  the  game  of  backgammon  came  to  an 
end  and  the  time  to  go  home  arrived. 

Reading,  it  should  be  noted,  was  not  a  pastime 
with  Manon.  It  was  a  serious  business,  a  self- 
educating  process  to  which  her  vigorous  mind  lent 
itself  naturally.  She  took  notes  of  what  she  read, 
meditated  thereon,  and  discussed  salient  points 
with  her  friends.  In  this  way  she  "  converted  into 
her  own  substance,"  as  she  herself  expressed  it,  the 
thoughts  of  the  great  writers  ;  slie  "  became  per- 
meated with  their  essence." 

Manon's  letters  to  Sophie  were  filled  with 
extracts  from  her  reading  and  tlie  reflections  her 
reading  awakened.  Manon's  letters  to  Sophie  ! 
Yes,  for  Manon  and  Sophie  no  longer  talked  with 
each  other  except  by  letter.  Sophie  had  left  the 
convent  and  Paris.  She  had  returned  to  her 
home  at  Amiens.  Before  she  went,  however,  the 
mothers  of  the  two  girls  had  met  and  "  conse- 
crated,"   so   to   speak,   with   their     approval     the 


116  MADAME  ROLAND. 

friendship  of  their  daughters.  With  the  apparent 
frivolousness  of  maturity  the  mothers  had  smiled 
when  the  girls  were  solemnly  vowing  never  to 
forget  each  other,  but  to  love  each  other  always 
with  the  same  warmth  and  devotion.  Of  course 
Manon  and  Sophie,  from  what  seemed  to  them 
their  superior  heights  of  wisdom,  had  regarded 
their  mothers  indignantly  and  renewed  their  vows 
with  even  greater  fervor. 

Manon  and  Sophie  were  separated.  Letters 
were  their  only  medium,  their  one  means  of  con- 
versation. The  letters  fairly  flew  between  them. 
They  throbbed  and  thrilled  with  a  tumult  of  girlish 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  ideals.  Manon's  very  life 
was  put  on  paper  and  dispatched  to  her  dearest 
Sophie,  her  life  and  her  ever  present,  ever  absorb- 
ing love.  She  watched  for  the  postman  with  the 
impatience  of  a  lover  and,  when  the  letter  from 
Amiens  arrived,  she  could  never  delay  its  reading, 
but  must  open  and  devour  it  wherever  she 
happened  to  be  when  it  was  delivered.  Occasion- 
ally this  was  at  the  dinner  table.  She  forgot  where 
she  was  and  shed  tears  over  the  sentimental  pas- 
sages. Papa  and  mamma  smiled.  From  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table  came  these  words  in 
Grandma  Phlipon's  terse  tones :  "  Wlien  you 
have  a  husband  and  children,  my  dear  Manon,  this 
friendship  will  soon  vanish  and  you  will  tliink  no 
more  of  Mademoiselle  Cannet." 

Manon,    afterwards    describing    the    scene    to 


MADAME  ROLAND.  117 

Sophie,  expressed,  her  revolt  at  giandina's  impos- 
sible idea. 

"  It  surprises  me,"  she  declared,  "  to  find  that  so 
many  people  regard  friendship  as  a  frivolous  and 
chimerical  sentiment.  Almost  every  one  seems  to 
imagine  that  the  lightest  emotion  of  another  sort 
is  capable  of  changing  and  effacing  it.  They  con- 
sider it  the  mere  makeshift  of  an  unoccupied  heart. 
Do  you  believe,  Sophie,"  she  inquired  fondly, 
rhetorically,  "  that  any  change  of  circumstances 
would  break  the  tie  between  us  ?  " 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  know  Manon  as  she  appears 
in  these  letters  to  Sophie;  she  is  so  warm  and 
human.  One  forgets  for  the  moment  the  pedestaled 
position  to  which  she  later  ascended.  Sometimes, 
it  is  true,  her  great  aspiring  nature  asserts  itself  and 
she  impulsively  exclaims,  "  Come  to  Paris,  Sophie ; 
there  is  nothing  like  residence  in  a  place  where  art 
and  science,  the  presence  of  great  men,  and  all 
sorts  of  intellectual  resources,  concur  and  vie  with 
one  another.  How  interesting  it  would  be  for  us 
to  study  and  walk  together.  How  I  desire  to 
know  men  of  ability  of  every  sort.  Sometimes  I 
feel  tempted  to  don  a  hat  and  breeches,  for  the 
sake  of  being  free  to  look  about  and  discover  what 
is  best  in  all  orders  of  talent.  I  have  heard  tales 
of  women  assuming  such  a  disguise  from  motives 
of  affection  or  self-sacrifice.  Ah,  if  I  were  a  little 
less  rational  and  circumstances  were  a  little  more 
in  my  favor  I  swear  that  I  have  the  requisite  zeal." 


118  MADAME  ROLAND. 

For  the  most  part,  however,  she  lived  very  con- 
tentedly in  the  twilight  atmosphere  of  her  home, 
the  "back  shop,"  the  "entresol,"  as  she  playfully 
designated  her  humble  surroundings.  She  walks 
with  her  papa.  She  reads  and  sews  with  her 
mamma.  She  studies  in  her  little  closet.  She 
thinks  of  Sophie,  her  absent  friend,  and  sings  her 
praises  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  guitar. 

Now  and  then  an  interesting  anecdote  varies  the 
peaceful  but  monotonous  storj^  of  her  life.  She 
visits  the  painter  Greuze  in  his  studio  and  is  charmed 
with  his  picture  "  The  Broken  Pitcher."  She  can 
find  but  one  fault  with  the  painting  —  he  has  not 
made  his  little  one  sorrowful  enough  to  prevent  her 
going  back  to  tlie  fountain.  She  tells  Greuze  this 
and  her  pleasantry  amuses  him.  She  tries  to  see 
Rousseau.  Overflowing  with  girlish  enthusiasm 
she  welcomes  the  first  opportunitj^  that  promises  a 
gHmpse  of  him,  her  "  chiefest "  hero.  A  friend  of 
her  father  wishes  to  projjose  to  the  illustrious 
philosopher  the  composition  of  a  few  musical  airs. 
Eagerly  Manon  undertakes  the  commission,  writes  a 
charming  letter  to  her  hero,  and  naively  announces 
that  slie  will  call  for  the  answer.  Behold  her, 
then,  climbing  the  long,  narrow  stairway  of  the 
house  in  the  Rue  Platriere  and  tremblingly,  rever- 
ently knocking  on  the  door.  She  feels  that  she  is 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  a  temple.  The  severe 
Therese  clad  in  round  cap,  simple  house  gown,  and 
big  apron  opens  to  her.     "No  "is  the  answer  to 


MADAME  ROLAND.  119 

every  question  which  tlie  fervent  little  worshipper 
inquires.  Manon  is  forced  to  retire  without  so 
much  as  a  glimpse  of  her  adored  philosopher. 

It  is  a  life  such  as  this,  healthful,  natural,  happy, 
that  the  letters  to  Sophie  reflect.  At  length  there 
steals  into  them  a  new  strain,  sighing,  plaintive, 
and  insistent,  the  theme  of  Manon's  lovers. 
Manon's  early  piety  has  become  an  incident  of  the 
past.  Her  native  vanity,  against  which  she  had 
once  so  vigorously  struggled,  and  her  love  of 
attention  are  supreme.  "  From  the  moment,"  she 
says  in  her  Memoirs,  "when  a  girl  attains  her  de- 
velopment, a  swarm  of  suitors  attends  her  footsteps, 
like  the  bees   that  buzz  about  an  opening  flower." 

Half  mockingly,  half  vauntingly  she  causes  her 
lovers  to  defile  before  us.  They  come,  a  motley 
throng,  very  like  the  characters  in  some  comic 
opera,  of  all  grades  and  trades,  the  music  master, 
the  dealer  in  diamonds,  the  rising  young  doctor, 
and  even  the  family  butcher,  apparently  all  the 
eligible  bachelors  and  widowers  of  the  Place  Dau- 
phine.  Indeed,  so  numerous  are  they  that  we  are 
inclined  to  surmise  that  some  are  there  merely  by 
reason  of  the  heroine's  creative  fancy. 

Such  are  her  lovers  as  they  appear  m  her  Me- 
moirs. In  her  letters  tliey  do  not  come  so  in  a  mass, 
but  individually,  and  therefore  they  appear  to  be 
more  real.  Manon  is  satirical  on  the  subject  of  her 
suitors,  she  makes  herself  merry  over  them  and 
laughter  at  their  expense  rings  through  her  letters. 


120  MADAME  ROLAND. 

Nevertheless  they  vex  her.  The  feelings  they 
awaken  in  her  puzzle  her.  "  jMy  sentiments  strike 
me  as  very  odd,"  she  says.  "What  can  be  stranger 
than  for  me  to  hate  any  one  because  he  loves  me, 
and  from  the  moment  I  try  to  love  him?  Yet  so 
it  is."  The  truth  is,  Manon  is  very  happy  in  her 
home,  with  her  books  and  in  the  companionship  of 
her  mother.     She  has  no  wish  to  marry. 

The  time,  however,  is  approaching  when  Manon 
will  not  be  so  happy.  Sorrows  are  in  store  for 
her  as  for  every  woman  who  has  ceased  to  be  a 
girl.  Her  devoted  mother,  as  we  have  seen, 
sought  to  prepare  her  for  these  sorrows  and  urged 
matrimony  upon  her  as  a  shield  against  them. 
Until  that  moment  when  her  mother  spoke, 
Manon,  secure  in  present  joy,  without  a  thought  of 
future  pain  or  separation,  had  wept  at  her  mother's 
warning.  Never  again  did  she  or  Madame 
Phlipon  renew  the  convei-sation  that  had  been  a 
sad  one  for  them  both.  Apparently  their  lives 
were  as  peaceful  and  hapj)y  as  before.  Yet  there 
was  a  difference,  an  added  tenderness  on  the 
mother's  part,  a  newly  awakened  anxiety  on  the 
daughter's  ;  the  thought  of  the  future  was  in  the 
mind  of  each.  Manon  especially  was  changed. 
She  was  constantly  beset  with  apprehensions  for 
her  mother's  health.  She  followed  Madame 
Phlipon  about  with  a  newly  awakened  sense  of 
responsibility.  Her  childlike  carelessness  of  spirit 
had  departed,  not  to  return. 


MADAME  ROLAND.  121 

Indeed,  SO  concerned  was  Manon  that  her  anxiety- 
was  present  even  in  her  dreams.  One  night,  the 
eve  of  Whitsuntide,  her  dreams  were  especially 
troubled.  In  them,  it  seemed  to  her,  some  danger 
was  threatening  her  mother.  She  was  wakened  by 
a  hand  gently  laid  on  her  arm  and  a  voice,  her 
mother's,  softly  speaking  her  name.  She  stretched 
out  her  arms  glad  to  be  awake  and  to  have  her 
mother  safe  at  her  side.  The  day,  bemg  a  f^te 
day,  Whitsuntide,  was  spent  at  Mendon.  Manon 
and  her  father  and  mother  once  more  enjoyed 
together  the  forest  shade,  the  woodbine,  and  the 
spotted  fern  and  all  the  beauties  of  their  favorite 
retreat. 

They  returned  to  the  city  on  Tuesday.  On  the 
next  day,  Wednesday,  Manon  and  her  mother  had 
planned  to  make  a  call.  When  the  time  came, 
however,  Madame  Phlipon  was  too  tired  to  go. 
She  sent  Manon  without  her  in  the  care  of  the 
servant.  Manon  set  out  feeling  anxious  on  her 
mother's  account.  She  made  her  call  very  brief. 
All  the  while  she  was  thinking  of  her  mother, 
dreading  that  she  might  be  ill,  longing  to  see  her 
and  assure  herself  that  she  was  well.  She  hurried 
home  regardless  of  the  servant's  con notative  remark 
that  the  weather  was  extremely  favorable  for  a 
walk  in  the  gardens. 

At  the  doorway  of  her  house  she  was  met  with 
the  news  which  she  had  been  fearing :  her  mamma 
had  been  taken  ill.     Manon  hastened  up  the  stair- 


122  MADAME  ROLAND. 

way  to  her  mother's  room.  The  attendants  who 
were  at  Madame  PhUpon's  side  made  way  for  the 
pale  girl  as  she  entered.  The  sick  woman's 
face  lighted  a  moment  in  recognition.  But  she 
could  not  speak,  she  could  not  move ;  paralysis 
had  deprived  her  of  all  power  of  action. 

Manon  was  immediately  beside  her  mother,  car- 
ing for  her,  giving  orders  and  carrying  out  these 
orders  before  another  could  execute  them  for  her. 
She  held  the  candles  while  the  priest  adminLstered 
the  extreme  unction.  She  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  on  the  face 
of  her  adored  and  dying  mother.  It  was  all  a 
dream,  she  told  herself,  one  of  those  hideous 
nightmares,  from  which  she  would  wake  to  feel 
again  the  gentle  touch  of  her  mother's  hand,  to 
hear  again  the  soft  tones  of  her  mother's  voice 
speaking  her  name,  "  Manon." 

After  the  end  they  took  Manon  away,  and  tried 
to  make  her  understand  that  her  mother  was  dead. 
But  Manon  Avould  not  believe  them.  It  was  too 
terrible.  She  could  not  believe  them.  At  lensfth 
the  blessing  of  unconsciousness  came  to  her.  She 
forgot  all  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 

She  woke  at  last,  understanding.  She  had  been 
very  ill.  She  was  still  weak.  Every  one  was  kind 
to  her.  They  came  to  see  her,  bringing  books  and 
flowers  —  her  father  among  the  rest.  Monsieur 
Phlipon  talked  to  her  with  good  enough  intentions, 
but  in  a  way  that  made  her  feel  his  distance  from 


MADAME  ROLAND.  123 

her.  She  told  herself  sadly  that  she  was  com- 
pletely an  orphan.  Her  life  was  very  empty,  she 
reflected,  she  was  quite  alone. 

It  was  during  the  dark  days  following  her 
mother's  death  and  her  own  illness  that  Manon 
first  came  to  know  the  work  of  Rousseau  inti- 
mately. She  previously  had  had  some  acquaint- 
ance with  him.  She  had  read  him,  but  she  had 
read  him  critically.  Now  life  was  changed  for 
her.  She  herself  was  changed.  Rousseau  was  the 
food  which  her  soul  craved.  She  turned  to  him  as 
in  her  early  childhood  she  had  turned  to  Plutarch. 
She  found  that  he  expressed  what  she  herself  had 
vaguely  felt,  he  voiced  her  thoughts  and  senti- 
ments. Her  reading  of  the  "  Nouvelle  Heloise " 
took  place  with  all  the  importance  of  an  event  in  her 
young  life.  With  it  sentiment  came  to  the  front. 
Philosophy  and  reason  retreated.  Manon  lost  her- 
self in  dreams  of  "  the  raptures  of  love,  the  beauty 
of  filial  affection,  the  peace  of  domestic  life,  and 
the  joys  of  motherhood." 

Naturally  enough,  JNIanon's  first  sign  of  her 
appreciation  of  Rousseau  was  an  attempt  to  find 
a  Saint-Preux  to  whom  she  might  play  the  part  of 
Julie.  She  looked  in  vain  for  such  a  one  among 
the  host  of  tradesmen  lovers  whom  her  father 
favored.  They  were  all  of  them  stupid.  They 
could  talk  of  nothing  more  inspiring  than  the 
gossip  of  the  Pont  Neuf.  Manon  could  not  give 
forth   the  faintest  spark   for  one   of   them.     The 


124  MADAME  ROLAND. 

idea  of  choosing  a  Saint-Preux  from  among  them 
was  quite  preposterous. 

However,  there  chanced  to  be  a  lover  for  Manon, 
a  possible  Saint-Preux  outside  this  tradesmen- 
throng.  He  wrote  verses  and  he  had  theories, 
and  he  could  talk  of  something  other  than  the 
gossip  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  so  wearisome  to  Manon. 
He  was  a  semi-philosopher,  semi-sentimentalist. 
His  name  was  La  Blancherie. 

There  is  mention  of  La  Blancherie  early  in 
Manon's  letters,  before  her  mother's  death.  The 
young  man,  it  seems,  had  met  Manon  at  one  of 
those  gatherings  of  belle  esprits  which  she  occa- 
sionally attended.  He  had  devoted  himself  to  her, 
had  captured  her  young  fancy,  and  obtained  per- 
mission from  her  to  call  upon  her.  Manon  had 
received  his  attentions  with  some  pride  and  pleas- 
ure. She  had  not  jested  about  him  as  about  her 
other  lovers.  She  had  regarded  him  as  a  young 
sage,  a  future  Rousseau  possibly.  She  had  become, 
indeed,  quite  enthusiastic  on  his  account.  Her 
hitherto  frigid  little  heart  had  warmed,  had  glowed 
and  burned  for  him.  The  fire  that  La  Blancherie 
had  kindled  was  not  love,  perhaps,  and  yet  surely 
it  was  something  more  ardent  than  admiration. 
Of  course,  Manon  had  confided  to  Sophie  this 
solemn  event  in  her  interior  life.  Without  her 
mother's  knowledge,  she  had  added  postscripts  to 
the  letters  bound  for  Amiens.  She  had  been  very 
serious,  very  reverent  in  her  treatment  of  this  new, 


MADAME  ROLAND.  125 

sweet,  and  inexpressibly  mysterious  sentiment. 
As  for  La  Blancherie,  he  had  not  been  slow.  He 
had  seen  "  papa,"  had  proposed  for  Manon's  hand, 
and  had  been  rejected  by  monsieur,  because  of  his 
lack  of  financial  resource.  Therewith,  he  had  left 
Paris  and  had  gone  to  Amiens,  supposedly  to  build 
up  the  necessary  fortune. 

Such  was  the  standing  of  the  La  Blancherie  affair 
at  the  time  of  Madame  Phlipon's  death.  Some 
months  after  this  event,  so  sorrowful  for  Manon, 
La  Blancherie  returned  to  Paris.  He  called  upon 
Manon  and  appeared  to  be  much  affected  by  her 
pale  and  sad  appearance.  Manon  tremulously 
spoke  to  him  of  her  grief.  He  sought  to  comfort 
her  and  showed  her  the  proof  sheets  of  his  new 
book.  Manon  wrote  to  Sopliie  of  the  book,  that 
it  was  her  "  whole  soul,"  and  of  the  author  she  said 
that  she  could  not  judge  him  because  he  was  so 
much  "  like  "  herself.  She  had  persuaded  herself 
that  she  was  in  love,  that  La  Blancherie  was  the 
Saint-Preux  for  whom  she  had  been  waiting. 

Monsieur  Phlipon,  hoAvever,  proved  recalcitrant. 
He  did  not  find  that  La  Blancherie  had  in  any 
way  bettered  his  financial  condition.  He  disap- 
proved of  the  young  man  and  requested  that  he 
abate  his  visits.  This  paternal  mandate  was  the 
needed  incentive  to  Manon's  love.  Distance,  in 
her  case,  certainly  lent  enchantment.  Separated 
from  her  Saint-Preux,  her  romantic  young  brain 
seethed  and  bubbled  amazingly.     She  idealized  the 


126  MADAME  ROLAND. 

young  man  into  a  being  of  talent  and  integrity 
quite  different  from  what  he  really  was.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  La  Blancherie  was  very  ordinary, 
his  verses  and  his  theories  were  "twaddle,"  his 
philosophy  and  his  sentiment  were  second-rate. 
It  was  only  by  means  of  a  most  superficial  acquain- 
tance that  he  had  succeeded  with  Manon. 

Manon  awoke  from  her  love's  young  dream 
when,  one  day,  walking  in  the  Luxembourg,  she 
met  her  lover  with  a  feather  in  his  hat.  This 
frivolous  ornament,  a  mere  trifle  to  be  sure  (but 
to  a  woman's  mind  trifles  sometimes  assume  vast 
proportions),  shocked  and  revolted  Manon.  Lii- 
mediately  the  young  man  was  a  changed  being  in 
her  eyes.  "  His  features,"  she  wrote  to  Sophie, 
"  though  the  same,  have  no  longer  the  same  ex- 
pression and  do  not  indicate  the  same  qualities. 
Oh,  how  powerful  is  illusion  !  He  is  no  more  an 
idol  of  perfection,  no  longer  the  first  of  his  species, 
—  in  short,  no  longer  my  beloved." 

This  episode  of  the  feather,  together  with  some 
idle  gossip  which  she  heard  to  the  effect  that  La 
Blancherie  was  commonly  known  as  "  the  lover  of 
the  eleven  thousand  virgins,"  quite  cured  Manon 
of  her  temporary  derangement.  She  granted  the 
young  man  one  last  interview  in  which  she  took 
occasion  to  inform  him  that  he  was  not  the  paragon 
she  had  once  supposed  him,  but  a  very  average 
mortal,  with  whom  she  could  have  no  concern. 
La  Blancherie,  a  bit  chagrined  and  looking  very 


MADAME   liOLAND.  127 

foolish,  took  up  his  hat  and  withdrew.  Wlien  the 
door  closed  behind  him,  it  shut  him  out  forever 
from  the  life  of  Mademoiselle  Pldipon.  Manon's 
first  love  affair  was  over. 

From  love  Manon  turned  to  friendship  with 
redoubled  fervor.  Sophie  alone  could  not  suffice 
her.  Ilenriette,  Sophie's  older  sister,  of  whom 
Manon  had  disapproved  in  her  convent  days,  came 
to  Paris  on  a  visit.  Her  vivacity  and  wit  charmed 
Manon.  She  was  admitted  as  a  third  to  the  inti- 
macy. Thenceforth  the  letters  to  Amiens  were 
addressed  to  both  sisters.  The  truth  was,  Manon 
had  grown  a  little  away  from  Sopliie  and  nearer  to 
Ilenriette.  Sophie  still  inhabited  a  world  of  mys- 
ticism and  piety  and  even  meditated  taking  the 
veil.  Manon  had  departed  from  that  world  into  a 
wider  circle  — the  circle  in  which  Henriette  had 
always  resided.  Under  such  circumstances  it  was 
inevitable  that  the  alliance  should  become  a  triple 
one.  The  correspondence  had  lost  its  unity.  And 
so,  too,  had  Manon  s  life.  At  this  period  Manon 
was  living  in  a  way  that  might  justly  be  described  as 
"scrappy,  patchy,  and  unfulfilled."  She  was  deep 
in  domestic  troubles.  Her  father  w^as  leading  an 
irregular  life.  His  fortune  was  fast  vanishing. 
Ruin  seemed  imminent.  "  I  shall  have  great  need 
of  philosophy  to  enable  me  to  sustain  the  conflicts 
that  are  coming,"  wrote  Manon  to  her  Amiens 
friends.  "  I  am  like  Ulysses  clinging  to  the  fig  tree  ; 
I  Y>^ait  for  the  ebb  tide  to  restore  me  to  my  ship." 


128  MADAME  ROLAND. 

When  she  wrote  thus  Manon  was  twenty-two 
years  of  age.  Her  sorrow  at  her  motlier's  death, 
her  little  love  affair,  her  household  cares  and 
worries  had  developed  and  matured  her.  She  was 
a  girl  of  very  exceptional  mind  and  character.  It 
was  not  surprising  that  she  should  have  attracted 
the  attention  of  men  of  mark.  Better  than  the 
society  of  young  men  she  enjoyed  that  of  the  older 
men,  distinguished  by  experience  and  culture,  who 
came  to  see  her. 

Her  Memoirs  and  her  letters  have  much  to  say 
of  a  certain  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Lette.  He  was 
about  sixty  years  of  age,  a  man  who  had  travelled 
much,  who  had  done  government  service  in 
Louisiana,  and  who  had  recently  come  to  Paris 
from  Pondicherry.  Manon  and  he  became  great 
chums.  Of  this  friendship  Manon  wrote  :  "  There 
is  perfect  freedom  between  us.  We  talk  on  all 
sorts  of  subjects.  I  question  him,  I  listen,  I  re- 
flect, I  object;  when  we  do  not  wish  to  talk  we 
keep  silent  without  troubling  ourselves,  but  that 
does  not  last  long.  Sometimes  we  read  a  fragment 
suggested  by  our  conversation,  something  well 
known  and  classic,  whose  beauties  we  love  to 
review.  The  last  was  a  song  of  the  poet  Rousseau 
and  some  verses  by  Voltaire." 

Sainte-Lette  had  a  widower  friend.  Monsieur  de 
Sevelinges,  a  man  of  some  fifty  odd  years  of  age, 
who  held  a  position  in  the  finances  of  the  province 
and    cultivated  letters   as   well.     Through  Sainte- 


MADAMS  ROLAND.  129 

Lette,  Manon  became  acquainted  with  Sevelinges. 
With  Sevelinges  as  with  Sainte-I^ette  she  reasoned, 
philosophized,  and  rhapsodized.  Moreover,  she 
spoke  to  him  of  her  domestic  troubles.  He  con- 
doned with  her  and  on  his  part  confided  to  her  his 
regrets  on  the  score  of  his  lonely  widowerhood. 
Sentimental  passages  ensued  between  them.  There 
was  even  talk  of  marriage.  However,  the  affair 
came  to  nothing.  Sevelinges  went  away  and 
Manon  gradually  ceased  to  think  of  him,  as  she  be- 
came much  interested  in  another  philosopher  friend. 

This  other  philosopher  friend  was  Monsieur 
Roland  de  la  Platierre.  He  was  a  friend  of  the 
sisters  Cannetand  much  revered  by  them.  Indeed, 
between  him  and  Henriette  there  had  been  at  one 
time  some  sort  of  a  sentimental  attachment.  Mon- 
sieur Roland  was  an  inspector  of  commerce  in 
Picardy  and  lived  at  Amiens.  In  his  business 
capacity  he  went  often  to  Paris.  Naturally  enough 
he  had  heard  much  of  Manon  from  the  Cannets 
and  had  become  acquainted  with  her  portrait  as  it 
hung  in  the  Cannet  home. 

One  day  he  remarked  to  the  Amiens  girls,  "  I 
am  about  to  set  out  for  Paris.  Why  not  give  me 
the  opportunity  of  knowing  this  dear  friend  of 
yours,  Mademoiselle  Phlipon?  Will  you  not  en- 
trust me  with  a  letter  to  her?" 

The  letter  was  written  and  Roland  was  appointed 
its  carrier.  Of  course  as  a  messenger  from  the 
beloved  Sophie  he  was  well  received. 


130  MADAME  EOLAND. 

"  An  enlightened  man  of  pure  morals  who  can  be 
reproached  with  nothing  save  his  preference  for  the 
ancients  over  the  moderns  and  his  foible  of  being 
somewhat  overfond  of  talking  of  himself," —  it 
was  thus  Sophie's  letter  described  the  man  who 
delivered  it.  Manon  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
written  words  and  contemplated  her  new  visitor. 
She  saw  a  rather  austere  looking  gentleman  of 
more  than  forty  years  of  age.  His  face  was 
long  and  thin,  his  hair  certainly  not  overbundant, 
his  features  regular,  his  manners  stiff,  and  his 
dress  conspicuous  in  its  simplicity.  Clearly  he 
was  not  at  all  a  handsome  man,  but  he  had  a  subtle 
and  very  pleasing  smile,  an  air  of  piquancy,  and 
an  appearance  that  was  on  the  whole  imposing  and 
distinguished.  All  this  Manon  noted  as  she  looked 
at  him.  Later,  as  she  talked  with  him,  she  was 
impressed  with  his  knowledge,  his  good  sense,  and 
his  excellent  taste. 

Such  was  Manon's  first  acquaintance  with  the 
man  destined  to  play  so  important  a  part  in  her 
life.  During  his  stay  in  Paris  she  did  not  see  him 
very  often.  He  was  much  occupied  with  business. 
But  there  were  occasional  "  visits  "  which  extended 
to  a  late  hour  in  the  evening-.  Manon  and  Roland 
found  much  to  talk  to  each  other  about.  He  told 
her  of  his  business  and  his  travels.  She  asked 
him  questions  in  regard  to  the  Italian  which  she 
was  studying.  They  discussed  literature.  They 
were  a  pair  of   sage  philosophers  together. 


MADAME  EOLAND.  131 

However,  tliere  must  luive  been,  even  at  this  early 
date  in  their  acquuintance,  some  romance  mixed 
with  the  pliik^soi^hy  ;  for  when  the  moment  came  for 
KoUuid  to  bid  his  fair  young  friend  good-bye,  he 
asked  for  something  which  we  are  not  accustomed 
to  associate  with  Plato  and  tlie  otliers  of  his  school. 
Manon,  it  seems,  complied  with  his  request,  and 
not  without  the  accompanying  blush. 

Sainte-Lette  happened  to  be  standing  near. 
There  appears  to  have  been  a  truly  French  freedom 
about  the  whole  transaction. 

"  You  are  fortunate  in  departing,"  the  older  man 
remarked,  dryly.  "■  Make  haste  to  return  in  order 
to  obtain  another." 

Roland  left  Paris  on  a  journey  that  took  him  to 
Switzerland,  Italy,  Sicily,  and  Malta.  He  studied 
the  industries  of  these  countries  and  took  notes 
upon  them.  B}^  previous  arrangement,  he  sent  his 
notes  to  Manon  to  preserve  for  him.  Manon 
became  much  interested  in  his  travels  and  investi- 
gation as  related  by  himself.  She  came  to  admire 
more  and  more  the  man's  clear,  intelligent,  and 
methodic  mind. 

On  the  completion  of  Ijis  journey  Roland 
returned  home  by  way  of  Paris.  Yet  even  at  this 
period  Manon  did  not  see  him  very  regularly.  He 
was  a  cautious  gentleman.  He  understood  Manon 
and  knew  that  she  was  not  to  be  won  by  precipitation. 
He  moved  with  the  slowness  and  sureness  of  fate 
itself.     ]\Ianon  pretended  to  be  much  piqued  by 


132  MADAME  ROLAND. 

his  wariness.  She  wrote  to  the  Amiens  friends 
that  Monsieur  Roland  appeared  to  her  ''  through  too 
long  a  telescope,"  that  for  all  she  saw  of  him  he 
might  as  well  have  remained  in  Italy.  There  is 
some  artifice  in  this.  j\Ianon,  who  had  always  been 
so  frank,  was  reticent  on  the  subject  of  this  mutual 
friend.  The  truth  was  Roland  did  not  wisli  to  have 
the  Cannet  sisters  know  that  he  saw  Manon  often. 
He  feared  gossip  and  then,  too,  he  apprehended  that 
Henriette,  who  had  once  liked  him  in  something 
more  than  a  moderate  degree,  might  be  jealous. 

The  affair  between  Manon  and  Roland  advanced 
secretly  along  Platonic  lines.  Roland,  however,  at 
length  became  ardent.  He  did  not  feel  sure  of 
Manon.  He  wished  to  meet  her  on  a  more 
subtanstial  footing  than  the  dream  basis  over  which, 
for  so  long  a  while,  they  had  been  pleasantly  drift- 
ing. He  told  her  that  he  loved  her  and  asked  her 
to  become  his  wife. 

Manon  answered  in  pretty  platitudes,  but  would 
give  him  no  direct  answer.  She  told  him,  in  very 
impersonal  fashion,  that  she  was  not  a  good  enough 
match  for  him.  She  disclosed  to  him  the  facts  of 
her  ruined  fortune  and  of  her  father's  irregular 
life.  Roland,  however,  persisted.  At  length  it 
was  agreed  that  he  should  write  a  letter  to  Mon- 
sieur Phlipon  asking  for  Manon's  hand. 

Roland  returned  to  Amiens  and  wrote  the  letter 
from  there.  jMonsieur  Phlipon  answered  in  very 
impertinent  and  bumptious  fashion.     He  did  not 


MADAME  ROLAND.  133 

like  Monsieur  Roland.  The  man's  air  of  conscious 
virtue  and  superiority  angered  him.  He  did  not 
want  him  for  a  son-in-law  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
tell  Monsieur  Roland  so.  He  showed  a  copy  of 
his  answer  to  Manon. 

Manon  was  very  much  mortified  and  indignant 
when  she  saw  what  her  father  had  written.  He  and 
she  had  been  growing  farther  and  farther  apart.  He 
was  proud  of  her,  but  he  disliked  the  philosophy 
that  made  her  refuse  some  rich  husband  of  his  own 
choosing.  Moreover,  he  saw  that  slie  considered 
herself  better  than  him,  and  this  annoyed  him.  As 
for  Manon,  she  was  not,  perhaps,  as  tender  and 
patient  as  slie  might  have  been.  She  doubtless 
showed  too  plainly  her  disapproval  of  his  loose 
conduct.  And  the  tone  she  took  towards  him  may 
have  been  a  little  too  censorious.  At  any  rate  there 
was  constant  friction  between  them.  Manon  felt 
that  this  must  end,  that  the  moment  of  crisis  had 
come,  that  she  must  act.  Her  father's  letter  to 
Roland  determined  her.  She  took  matters  into  her 
own  hands,  left  her  father  for  good,  and  retired  to 
an  apartment  in  the  convent  of  the  Congregation. 
There  she  lived  economically,  quietly,  studiously. 

When  Manon  went  to  the  convent,  she  wrote  to 
Roland  that  all  thought  of  an  engagement  between 
them  must  be  banished.  Henceforth  they  could  be 
only  friends.  Perplexed,  aggrieved,  well  nigh  dis- 
tracted, Roland  acquiesced.  He  wrote  heartbroken 
letters  to  Manon,  and  she  answered  in  the  same 


134  MADAME  ROLAND. 

mournful  vein.  They  were  both  very  miserable 
over  their  separation. 

The  affair  was  at  this  distressing  standstill  when 
at  length  Roland  arrived  in  Paris.  He  called  upon 
Manon  at  the  convent.  He  went  to  scold,  but  the 
sight  of  her  beautiful,  sad  face,  the  tears  that  were 
in  her  eyes  as  she  regarded  liim,  quite  vanquished 
him.  He  remained  only  to  love.  He  took  the 
dear,  unkind,  unreasonable  girl  in  his  arms  and 
once  more  implored  her  to  marry  him. 

"  Is  it  yes  or  no,  Manon  ?  "  he  inquired. 

It  was  yes.  Manon  could  no  longer  resist  the 
call  of  this  wise,  learned,  and  upright  man,  the  call 
of  marriage,  of  domestic  life,  of  love.  Her  feeling 
for  Roland  was  a  romantic  friendship  in  which 
plnlosophy  and  sentiment  blended.  She  believed 
she  could  be  happy  with  him.  With  lier  clear 
vision  she  looked  before  her  and  saw  new  cares, 
new  responsibilities,  new  experiences.  She  went 
forward  to  meet  them,  firmly,  courageously,  as  at 
a  later  day  she  went  to  meet  her  last  great  crisis. 

Manon's  girlhood  is  at  an  end.  On  the  eve  of 
her  marriage  it  has  become  a  thing  apart,  a  picture, 
a  memory.  It  is  in  retrospect  only  a  humble  first 
act.  Yet  what  a  remarkable  first  act !  The  recol- 
lection of  its  purity,  its  vigor,  its  activity  remains 
after  the  knowledge  of  otlier  grander,  more  pre- 
tentious scenes  is  past.  There  is  in  it  inspiration 
and  the  health  and  beneficence  that  are  in  all  good 
things. 


n. 

MADAME  ROLAND,  THE  HEROINE  OF  THE 
REVOLUTION. 

It  was  afternoon.  Tlie  session  of  the  Assembly 
was  at  an  end.  The  meeting  of  the  Jacobins  had 
not  yet  opened.  A  band  of  patriots  were  gathered 
in  a  pleasant  salon  of  the  Hotel  Britannique.  They 
argued,  they  wavered,  they  compromised.  They 
were  carried  this  way  and  that  with  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  political  debate. 

Viewed  even  as  they  were  then,  at  an  early  period 
in  the  Revolution,  before  the  light  of  subsequent 
events  had  irradiated  them,  they  were  an  interesting 
group  of  men.  He  of  the  ruddy  cheeks  and  honest 
countenance  was  Petion,  soon  to  be  chosen  mayor 
of  Paris.  Near  by  was  one  who  said  very  little,  but 
who  heard  all,  a  neatly  dressed,  sallow  faced  man. 
This  man  was  Robespierre.  There,  too,  was  Brissot, 
the  republican  journalist,  distinguished  by  his 
gaiety,  his  naivete,  his  boyishness,  his  frank  and 
winning  smile.  The  austere  gentleman,  the  Cato 
of  the  throng,  was  Roland.  And  there  beside  him, 
young,  handsome,  grave,  the  most  lofty  and  daring 
spirit  of  them  all  was  Buzot.  There  were  others  be- 
sides these  foremost  ones,  Claviere,  Louis  Noailles, 
Voltius,  and  Garran.     Together  they  discussed  the 


136  3fADAME  ROLAND. 

affairs  of  the  Assembly,  criticised  its  dilatoriness, 
and  suggested  measures  that  should  be  taken  to 
advance  the  interests  of  the  people. 

In  the  same  salon  with  them,  near  a  Avindow  and 
before  a  little  table,  a  woman  was  seated  writing. 
She  was  the  wife  of  one  of  the  number,  of  Roland, 
the  host  of  the  salon.  In  her  capacity  of  hostess, 
she  rose  to  receive  each  man  as  he  came  and  to  ex- 
change some  few  pleasant  amenities  with  him 
before  he  left.  For  the  rest,  she  took  no  part  in  the 
conversation.  Apparently  her  whole  attention  was 
given  to  her  writing.  Yet,  at  every  expression  of 
a  high  minded  sentiment,  her  eyes  flashed  and  her 
color  deepened,  and  at  an  ill-timed  jest  or  a  foolish 
argument  she  bit  her  lips  and  her  pen  sputtered  in 
protest. 

"Oh,  these  Frenchmen,"  she  was  tliinking. 
"  They  do  not  know  how  to  deliberate.  A  certain 
lightness  leads  them  from  one  subject  to  another. 
Their  attention  is  easily  fatigued.  A  laugh  is 
awakened  by  a  word,  and  a  jest  overthrows  logic. 
Why  will  they  not  see  that  it  is  impossible  to  do 
good  in  politics  save  by  combined  effort,  that 
unless  each  one  is  willing  to  bend  to  an  idea  a 
little  different  from  his  own,  there  can  be  no 
united  action  and  nothing  will  be  accomplished  ?  " 

The  voices  of  the  men  grew  loud  in  disagree- 
ment.    Madame's  pen  went  sputtering  on  its  way. 

Claviere,  who  happened  to  be  standing  nearest 
to  madame,  glanced  down  at  her,  remarking  com- 


MADAME  ROLAND.  137 

passionately,  "How  rapidly  you  wntu — and  in 
this  furor !  Only  a  woman's  he:id  is  capable  of 
such  a  thing." 

Madan\e  looked  u[),  smiling.  "  What  wonkl  you 
say,"  she  asked,  "  if  I  should  repeat  all  your  argu- 
ments ?" 

The  gentlemen  were  leaving.  One  by  one  they 
stopped  beside  madame's  chair  to  exchange  a  few 
words  with  her  before  departing.  At  length  there 
remained  onlyBrissot,  Robespierre,  Petion,  Buzot, 
and  Roland.  These  latter  gentlemen,  left  alone, 
turned  to  Madame  Roland,  anxious  for  her 
opinion. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  to-day's  business  ?  " 
they  inquired.  "  Do  we  go  backward  like  the 
crab  or  slowly  forward  like  the  turtle?"  This 
was  said  part  in  jest  and  in  appreciation  of  tlie 
woman's  swift,  eager  spirit. 

Madame  Roland  pushed  back  her  papers  and 
]-ose  from  her  table.  Impetuously,  a  bit  scornfully, 
determinedly  she  faced  the  men.  "  You  are  noth- 
ing but  children,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Your  enthu- 
siasm is  a  momentary  blaze.  A  civil  war  is 
necessary  before  you  will  be  worth  anything.'  Tis 
blood  we  want,  since  nothing  else  will  whip  you 
and  make  you  go.  War  !  war !  We  must  beat  to 
battle  or  retreat.     There  is  no  middle  course." 

Something  like  tlie  joy  of  battle  thrilled  in 
madame's  voice  and  shone  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
terrible    in   her  cruelty.     But   in   her  cruelty,  its 


138  MADAME  ROLAND. 

cause,  its  very  essence,  was  the  divine  spark.  Her 
wrath  was  "  the  wrath  of  the  gods,"  her  indigna- 
tion the  "  righteous  indignation  "  of  the  moralist. 
Her  call  for  "  blood  "  was  in  accordance  with  that 
"  divine  right  of  insurrection  "  which  she  preached, 
a  means  towards  that  "complete  regeneration" 
which  she  most  rigorously  demanded. 

To  the  patriots  whom  she  addressed  Madame 
Roland's  words  were  now  as  always  fresh  incentive, 
renewed  inspiration.  She  was  in  "  the  vanguard  " 
of  their  movement.  They  looked  to  her  as  to  "  the 
watcher  on  the  ramparts "  urging  them  to  the 
fight.  We  can  imagine  their  listening  attention. 
If  there  was  one  among  them  who  held  back  and 
said  nothing,  that  one,  we  may  be  sure,  was  Robes- 
pierre. Perhaps  in  his  politic  soul  even  so  soon 
he  had  begun  to  cherish  a  contempt  for  Madame 
Roland's  uncalculating  daring  and  indifference  to 
consequence.  Already  a  dark  thought,  like  the 
shadow  of  the  guillotine,  may  have  traversed  his 
mind.  If  there  was  anotlier  whose  eyes  flashed 
with  a  fire  like  her  own,  who  stood  beside  her  on 
the  ramparts  in  the  forefront  of  the  fray,  that 
other,  we  may  know,  was  Buzot.  Perhaps,  even 
at  that  early  date,  the  fire  of  his  glance  may 
have  contained  the  spark  of  love.  Already  similar 
hopes  and  dreams  and  aspirations  may  have  been 
drawing  him  to  her,  uniting  his  soul  to  her  soul 
with  the  inevitableness  of  fate. 

But  though  one  may  have  hung  back  ominously 


MADAME  ROLAND.  139 

and  iuiothcr  have  pressed  forward  too  fervently, 
all  were  stirred,  all  were  iueited  in  one  way  or 
another  by  her  words.  Madame  Roland,  it  is 
certain,  had  acquired  at  this  period  "  a  veritable 
supremacy "  over  these  men  and  over  all  the 
patriots  of  her  acquaintance.  And  this  is  not  sur- 
prising. All  reasons,  save  that  of  her  sex,  made 
her  their  natural  leader.  She  was  the  most  de- 
termined, the  most  inspired  of  them  all.  She 
never  wavered  when  they  wavered,  or  stopped  at 
practical  considerations  when  they  stopped.  She 
was  uncompromising,  unswerving,  unalterable  in 
her  purpose.  She  gave  herself  exclusively  to  the 
cause ;  she  would  not  go  to  the  theatre  or  look  at 
pictures  or  do  anything  for  the  mere  gratification 
of  her  tastes.  "  Who  is  the  traitor,"  she  de- 
manded, "  who  has  other  interest  to-day  than  that 
of  the  nation  ?  "  Triumphant  in  her  hopefulness, 
she  pictured  a  future  made  glorious  by  the  realiza- 
tion of  an  ideal  government.  With  "  an  almost 
clairvoyant  vision,"  she  looked  into  the  future  and 
foretold  what  would  be  the  needs,  what  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  this  government.  Her  stand  was 
the  firmest,  her  loyalty  the  surest,  her  aspirations 
tlie  highest,  her  sight  the  clearest.  She  embodied 
in  their  purest  form  the  principles  of  the  patriot 
cause. 

This  woman  to  whom  all  eyes  turned  as  to  "  the 
tjq^e  and  symbol  of  the  Republic  "  was  one  with 
the  young  girl  who  had  sighed  for  the  time  of  the 


140  MADAME  ROLAND. 

saints  and  the  heroes,  whose  eyes  had  filled  with 
tears  in  contemplation  of  the  beauty  and  solemnity 
of  the  universe.  In  essence,  the  real  essence,  that 
is  of  the  soul,  Madame  Roland  was  still  Manon 
Phlipon,  responsive,  idealistic,  incorruptible. 

Manon's  life  since  her  marriage,  to  the  time  when 
the  beginnings  of  the  Revolution  were  shaking 
France,  had  been  quiet,  industrious,  intensely 
domestic.  Manon  had  married  Roland  on  Feb.  4, 
1784,  when  her  twenty-sixth  birthday  was  close  at 
hand.  She  and  her  husband  had  lived  first  at 
Paris  and  then  at  Amiens.  Since  1784,  and  until 
the  Revolution  of  '89,  they  had  been  established  in 
the  district  of  Lyons,  dividing  their  time  between 
the  city  and  the  neighboring  town  of  Villefranche 
and  Roland's  ancestral  home,  the  close  of  La  Pla- 
tiere,  situated  near  the  village  of  Thezee,  in  the 
midst  of  tlie  beautiful  Beaujolais  woods  and  moun- 
tains. 

The  young  wife  constituted  herself  her  hus- 
band's assistant  in  his  industrial  and  economic 
labors.  She  was  his  proofreader,  his  copyist,  his 
editor.  She  devoted  herself  to  him  with  irreproach- 
able tact  and  gentleness  and  submission.  She  made 
herself  indispensable  to  him. 

In  the  second  year  of  her  marriage  her  child  was 
born,  a  daughter,  to  whom  was  given  the  name 
Eudora.  Madame  Roland,  true  to  the  teacliings 
of  her  revered  Rousseau,  did  not,  according  to  the 
fashion  prevalent  among  mothers  of  the  time,  put 


MADAME  ROLAND.  141 

her  biiby  out  to  nurse,  but  herself  took  entire  charge 
of  the  little  one.  Eudora,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  something  of  a  trial  to  her  mother.  As  she 
grew  into  a  healthy,  hearty  child,  it  became  mani- 
fest that  she  was  more  frolicsome  than  studious, 
that  she  loved  her  doll  better  than  her  Plutarch. 
Her  mother  in  despair  betook  herself  to  Rousseau 
and  sought  to  learn  from  Emile  and  Julie  the  way 
to  imbue  her  daughter  with  the  proper  sentiment 
and  enthusiasm. 

During  the  years  before  the  Revolution,  Mad- 
ame Roland's  happiest  times  were  passed  at  the 
close  of  La  Platiere.  In  a  spirit  of  rapturous  an- 
ticipation she  had  approached  her  home  among  the 
hills.  It  was  to  be  her  Clarens.  Rousseau  had 
painted  for  her  in  glowing  colors  that  ideal  coun- 
try existence,  those  delightful  meditations,  those 
wholesome,  hearty  duties.  And  the  reality  did  not 
fall  far  short  of  the  dream.  Life  at  the  close  was 
made  easy  and  pleasant  for  her  by  her  activity,  her 
industry,  her  firm  hold  on  homely,  every  day  con- 
cerns. Within  doors  she  kept  the  accounts  and 
directed  the  servants.  Out  of  doors  she  superin- 
tended the  toil  of  the  vine-dresser,  the  gathering-in 
of  the  harvest,  the  affairs  of  the  poultry  yard.  She 
appreciated,  she  loved  all  these  details  of  domestic 
and  rural  simplicity. 

In  addition  to  her  duties  about  the  house  and  on 
the  farm,  Madame  Roland  undertook  the  care  of 
her  neighbors,  the  peasants  of  Thezee.     When  oc- 


142  MADAME   EOLAND. 

casion  denianded  she  nursed  them,  she  helped  them, 
she  comforted  them.  Their  welfare  was  among  her 
chief  considerations.  She  endeared  herself  to  the 
peasants,  and  one  of  her  last  thoughts  Avas  of  them 
and  of  her  pride  and  happiness  in  the  consciousness 
of  their  love. 

Life  at  the  close  afforded  ample  scope  for  the  af- 
fections. Friends  came  often  and  stayed  long.  A 
delightful  hospitality  was  maintained.  Then  there 
was  always  the  little  Eudora  who,  wonderful  to  re- 
late, was  improving  under  her  mother's  Rousseau- 
flavored  doctrines.  And  there  was  always  Roland. 
During  these  years  Madame  Roland  had  not  abated 
her  labors  as  her  husband's  assistant.  She  contin- 
ued to  copy,  to  read  proof,  to  polish  and  revise  for 
him.  She  and  Roland  were  very  happy  together. 
He  was  more  in  love  with  liis  beautiful,  clever  young 
wife  than  ever.  And  as  for  madarae,  she  loved  him 
as  a  daughter  loves  a  father.  She  continued  al- 
ways to  revere  in  him  the  wisdom,  integrity,  and 
austerity  which  had  first  attracted  her  to  him.  She 
knew  no  higher,  better  companionship  than  this 
with  him,  and  it  satisfied  her. 

On  the  whole,  Madame  Roland  was  well  off. 
She  might  have  gone  on  in  this  way  busil}'-,  pleas- 
antly, quietly  to  the  end.  Had  it  not  been  for  an 
unusual  stress  of  circumstances,  she  might  have 
remained  content  in  her  obscurity,  without  a 
thought  of  broader  aims  and  larger  possibilities. 
But  elements  of  dissolution  were  at  work.     Clouds 


MADAME   liOLAND.  143 

were  gathering  which  were  to  break  in  a  fierce 
tempest  over  France.  Tlie  Revolution  was  at 
hand  and  in  its  tumultuous  rush  of  thought  and 
action  INIadame  Roland  was  caught  up  and  carried 
far  away  from  her  vines,  her  chickens,  and  her 
peasants,  and  her  obscure  fireside  happiness. 

Madame  Roland  and  her  husband  were  among 
those  who  enthusiastically  welcomed  the  Revolution 
of  '89.  Their  responsive  souls  had  felt  the  rage  and 
sufferings  of  the  people.  They  had  burned  to 
ameliorate  the  people's  wrongs.  At  first  all  that 
they  desired  was  reform.  The  country  was  to  be 
rid  of  its  ancient  abuses.  Those  taxes  that  "  so 
piteously  ravaged  town  and  province,"  those  re- 
strictions that  so  "  crippled  "  industries  and  manu- 
factures were  to  be  abolished.  The  old  regime  was 
to  pass  away,  and  in  its  place  was  to  rise  a  new 
government  founded  upon  justice  and  a  liberal  con- 
stitution. Hopefully  they  turned  their  eyes  to  the 
Assembly  that  met  on  May  4,  at  Versailles.  In- 
dustriously, earnestl}^,  they  went  to  work  upon 
the  cahiers,  memorials  setting  forth  the  people's 
grievances,  that  were  to  go  from  Lyons  to  the  As- 
sembly at  Versailles. 

During  the  days  between  May  4  and  July  14, 
from  their  quiet  home  among  the  Beaujolais  they 
watched  the  proceedings  of  the  Assembly.  What 
they  viewed  there  did  not  satisfy  them.  They 
grew  suspicious  of  the  new  administrative  body. 
They  criticised  and  condemned  it. 


144  MADAME  BOLAND. 

In  the  storming  of  the  Bastile,  on  July  14, 
Madame  Roland  saw  the  rising  of  the  rightful  and 
long  repressed  "  sovereign."  It  was  for  her  the 
dawning  of  a  new  and  very  beautiful  ideal.  She 
no  longer  asked  for  reform.  It  was  complete  regen- 
eration that  she  demanded.  Henceforth  she 
spurned  all  palliative  measures.  She  put  no  faith 
in  the  promises  of  the  king.  For  the  half-way 
course  of  the  constitutional  party  she  had  only 
contempt  and  loathing.  It  was  of  revolution  that 
she  talked,  revolution  aiid  the  foundation  of  a 
republic.  She  turned  her  eyes  to  Greece  and 
Rome  and  America,  to  the  liberty  that  had  blessed 
these  countries,  to  the  words  and  actions  of  their 
heroes.  She  dreamed  of  establishing  a  free  gov- 
ernment in  France. 

Madame  Roland's  political  views  were  lofty,  but 
they  were  human  and,  as  such,  subject  to  error  and 
excess.  She  shared  the  fault  of  her  time  in  sus- 
pecting and  condenming  all  who  did  not  think  as 
she  thought.  All  who  were  not  so  swift,  so 
impatient  as  herself,  she  stigmatized  as  intriguers 
and  traitors  to  the  cause.  She  was  fierce,  passion- 
ate, bitter  in  her  denunciation.  It  is  especially 
hard  to  forgive  her  strictures  on  the  revered  La 
Fayette.  She  herself  afterwards  softened  these 
strictures.  She  came  to  regard  the  general's 
reactionary  attitude  as  an  early  revolt  against  that 
"overweening  popular  ascendency"  which  she 
turned  and  faced  when  it  was  too  late. 


MADAME  ROLAND.  145 

Moreover,  Madame  Roland  was  not  always 
practical.  She  was  a  moralist,  a  theorist,  an  ideal- 
ist. She  thought  deeply  and  broadly.  She 
argued  eloquently.  But  when  it  was  a  question  of 
definite  ends  and  aims,  she  sometimes  fell  into 
the  error  of  "  vagueness  and  insufficiency."  Yet 
in  spite  of  occasional  lapses,  her  sense  was,  on 
the  whole,  sound,  her  judgments  keen  and 
lucid. 

Early  in  the  Revolution  the  Rolands  put  them- 
selves in  touch  with  certain  sympathetic  spirits. 
They  became  especially  intimate  with  Brissot  who 
was  editing  "  Le  Patriote  Fran^ais."  Roland  and 
madame,  both  of  them,  contributed  to  his  journal 
and  corresponded  with  him.  They  also  were  in 
communication  with  Champagneux,  who  had 
started  in  Lyons  "  Le  Courrier  de  Lyon,"  similar 
in  character  to  Brissot's  journal.  They  wrote 
often  for  this  paper.  Moreover,  the  Rolands  were 
on  very  friendly  terms  with  Bosc,  a  young  scientist, 
whom  they  had  known  ever  since  the  first  year  of 
their  marriage,  and  with  Lanthenas,  a  doctor,  who 
had  long  been  a  frequent  and  welcome  visitor  in 
their  home.  Madame  wrote  patriotic  letters  to 
both  of  these  men  who  were  in  Paris  in  the  heart 
of  affairs.  She  was  forever  inciting  them  to  action. 
She  also  corresponded  in  very  spirited  vein  with  a 
young  lawyer,  Bancal  des  Issarts,  whom  Lanthenas 
had  introduced  to  her  and  her  husband.  Thus  by 
correspondence  and  by  frequent  contributions  to 


146  MADAME  ROLAND. 

the  political  journals  of  the  day,  Madame  Roland 
did  all  in  her  power  to  urge  on  the  patriot  cause. 

At  length  the  time  came  when  she  was  able  to 
take  a  more  active  part.  The  municipality  of 
Lyons  was  sending  deputies  to  Paris  to  claim  from 
the  Assembly  the  p;iyment  of  the  debt  which  the 
old  regime  had  forced  upon  the  city.  Roland  was 
one  of  the  deputies  chosen  to  go.  He  went,  and 
madarae  went  with  him. 

During  their  stay  in  Paris,  a  period  of  a  few 
months,  from  February,  1791,  to  September  of  the 
same  year,  the  Rolands  resided  on  the  Rue  Guene- 
gaud  in  the  Hotel  Britanique.  There,  in  their 
pleasant  salon,  they  received,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
leaders  of  the  patriot  cause. 

The  Assembly  sat  only  a  short  distance  away  in 
the  Manege  of  the  Tuileries.  Thither  madame 
repaired  and  sat  in  judgment  on  the  body.  Its 
waverings  exasperated  and  finally  angered  her. 
She  found  the  leaders  of  '89,  the  "  impartials  "  as 
they  were  called,  the  most  dangerous  enemies  of 
the  Revolution.  In  April  she  left  the  Assembly  in 
wrath,  not  to  revisit  it  during  her  stay. 

She  turned  her  attention  to  the  patriot  clubs. 
These  she  attended  with  her  husband  and  sent 
letters  to  some  of  them.  She  would  not  sign  her 
letters,  however.  She  believed  that  under  exist- 
ing customs  women  should  work  quietly,  not  con- 
spicuously ;  they  should  inspire  and  inflame,  but 
take  no  public  part. 


MADAME   liOLAND.  147 

Such  being  lier  ()i)iiii()ii,  she  governed  her  actions 
in  accordance  always.  Even  in  her  own  salon  at  the 
gathering  of  })atriots  she  remained,  as  we  know, 
seated  at  her  little  table.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
book  that  occupied  her,  sometimes  it  was  hv.v 
needlework,  but  oftenest  it  was  her  writing.  To 
the  casual  observer  she  appeared  uninterested,  a 
person  of  no  consec^uence  in  the  debate.  Yet  by- 
many  of  those  assembled  there,  by  all  who  knew 
her  intimately,  her  presence  was  never  for  a 
moment  forgotten.  They  realized  her  keen  inter- 
est, her  constant  attention,  and  took  both  into 
account.  Unconsciously,  involuntarily  almost, 
they  aj)pealed  to  her.  She  was  silently  invoked, 
tacitly  addressed.  Truly  she  was  in  all  of  these 
meetings  the  controlling  influence,  the  real  power. 

Over  these  meetings  of  the  patriots,  as  over  the 
sittings  of  the  Assembly,  Madame  Roland  sat  in 
judgment.  She  was  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the 
high-mindedness,  the  courage,  the  eloquence  of  her 
friends,  but  she  was  not  blind  to  their  faults.  She 
lamented  their  lightness,  their  vagaries  of  speech, 
their  lack  of  unity,  their  impatience  with  one 
another. 

With  her  keen  and  virile  intellect  she  compre- 
hended the  weakness  of  the  movement  which  she 
was  urging  on.  She  saw  how  very  distant  was  the 
goal  of  her  aspirations.  She  and  her  patriot  friends 
she  realized  were  in  the  case  of  that  "  forlorn  hope 
which  must  needs  fight  and  conquer  for  the  army." 


148  MADAME  ROLAND. 

But  her  determination  never  faltered.  It  was  for 
"  the  liappiness  of  future  generations "  that  she 
pressed  boldly  on.  With  her  clear,  discerning 
vision  she  perceived  the  clouds  ahead.  "  I  know 
that  good  citizens  such  as  I  see  every  day  regard 
the  future  with  tranquil  eyes,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
am  more  than  ever  convinced  that  they  are  deluded." 
However,  it  was  for  the  sun  beyond  the  clouds  that 
she  worked  and  waited.  "  I  shall  die  when  it  may 
jjlease  heaven,"  she  declared,  "but  my  last  breath 
will  be  an  aspiration  of  joy  and  hope  for  coming 
generations." 

That  which  troubled  Madame  Roland  more  than 
the  weakness  of  her  friends,  more  even  than  what 
seemed  to  her  the  perfidy  of  the  Assembly,  was  the 
indifferent  attitude  of  the  people.  They  were  not 
bent  on  revolution.  They  were  not  dreaming  of  a 
republic.  Since  their  storming  of  the  Bastile, 
which  had  so  rejoiced  and  inspired  Madame 
Roland,  they  had  subsided,  so  madame  considered, 
into  "lethargy."  They  had  fallen  back  into  "the 
sleep  of  the  enslaved."  The  public  conscience  was 
dormant.  To  awaken  this  conscience,  to  arouse 
the  people  to  a  realization  of  their  "  sovereign " 
rights,  she  was  ready  to  Avelcome  any  excesses. 
She  exulted  over  the  flight  of  the  king  on  June 
22.  She  regarded  it  as  a  virtual  abdication. 
The  duty  of  the  country  now,  she  determined,  was 
to  declare  Louis  XVI.  dethroned  and  so  establish  a 
republic.     She   lamented   his  capture.     "  But    for 


MADAME  ROLAND.  149 

this,"  she  thought,  "civil  war  would  have  been 
inevitable  and  the  nation  would  have  been  forced 
into  the  grand  school  of  public  virtues."  She  and 
her  friends  desired  the  trial  of  the  king.  'J'o  bring 
this  about  they  united  with  demagogues  and  agita- 
tors, the  mob  element  of  the  streets.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  alliance  came  the  events  of  the 
Champ-de-Mars  on  Jul}^  17.  Madame  Roland 
joined  with  those  who  called  these  events  a  "  massa- 
cre." She  was  exasperated.  She  despaired  of  ever 
seeing  her  ideals  realized.  The  public  mind,  she 
determined,  was  incapable  of  anything  lofty 
and  daring. 

Monsieur  Roland's  business  was  at  an  end. 
Madame  was  glad  to  leave  Paris,  its  "  dolts  "  and 
its  ''  Imaves,"  and  retire  with  her  husband  to  their 
retreat  among  the  Beaujolais  hills.  At  least  she 
thought  for  a  time  that  she  was  glad.  In  reality 
her  interest  in  public  events  was  so  vigorous,  her 
devotion  to  the  cause  so  intense,  that  she  stifled 
under  the  nullity  of  her  provincial  home.  She 
knew  that  there  were  heights  to  be  climbed  and 
battles  to  be  fought.  Her  eyes  were  lifted  to 
those  heights,  her  warrior  blood  coursed  in  her 
veins.  She  could  not  rest  content  cultivating  her 
lettuce,  sitting  with  her  needle-work  at  her  obscure 
fireside,  while  there  was  a  chance  that,  by  being  in 
the  centre  of  affairs,  she  might  help  in  that  great 
work  that  sooner  or  later  must  be  accomplislied  or 
the  patriot  cause  be  lost  forever. 


150  MADAME   ROLAND. 

Could  Madame  Roland  have  foreseen  her  own 
prominent  and  tragic  part  in  that  great  work,  we  may 
be  sure  she  would  not  for  one  moment  have  halted. 
Her  acquaintance  with  the  philosophers  and  the 
noble  minds  of  antiquity  had  taught  her  a  certain 
contempt  for  all  personal  considerations,  all  selfish 
happiness.  She  was  ready,  more  than  that,  she 
was  eager  to  sacrifice  all  to  the  goal  of  humanity. 
Truly  she  was  in  spirit  very  like  tliose  large-souled 
Roman  matrons,  Cornelia  and  the  rest,  of  whom 
she  loved  to  read.  She  was  compounded  of  heroic 
stuff,  her  level  was  a  high  one ;  and  this  she 
yearned  to  prove. 

It  was  decided  that  the  little  Eudora  needed  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  sights  of  Paris,  that 
Roland  could  perform  his  work,  which  was 
the  enc3^clopedia,  better  in  the  capital,  among 
savants  and  artists,  than  at  "  the  bottom  of  a 
desert,"  for  so  the  home  at  the  close  had  come  to 
be  regarded.  Accordingly,  in  December  the 
Rolands  went  up  to  Paris. 

When  the  Rolands  arrived  in  Paris  the  new 
Assembly,  called  the  legislative  to  distinguish  it 
from  its  successor,  the  constituent,  was  in  session. 
Among  its  members  were  a  group  of  young  and 
ardent  enthusiasts  known  as  the  Girond,  the  name 
of  the  department  from  Avhich  many  of  them  had 
come.  Like  Madame  Roland,  these  young  men 
from  an  early  age  had  nourished  their  minds  on 
Plutarch  and    Rousseau.     They  spoke    in    classic 


MADAME  nOLANJ).  151 

phrase,  they  thought  high  thoughts,  dreamed 
beautiful  dreams.  They  believed  implicitly  in 
their  ideals  and  their  own  power  to  accomplish 
their  ideals.  They  considered  themselves  charged 
with  the  regeneration  of  France,  the  dissemination 
of  liberty,  the  foundation  of  a  republic.  They 
regarded  themselves  as  the  saviours,  the  "Provi- 
dence" of  their  country. 

Allied  with  the  Girondists  were  the  Rolands' 
old  friends,  Brissot  and  Petion,  both  high  in 
power.  Brissot  was  conspicuous  in  the  Assembly, 
a  deputy  from  Paris,  and  Petion  was  mayor  of 
Paris. 

To  the  aid  of  Brissot,  Petion,  and  the  Girondists, 
the  Rolands  brought  their  own  bright  hopes  and 
daring  projects.  Madame  Roland  felt  her  affinity 
to  these  Plutarchian  heroes,  these  so  many  Solons 
and  Brutuses  and  Phocions,  as  they  loved  to  call 
themselves.  Her  husband  was  Cato  and  she  was 
Cato's  wife,  and  these  others  were  their  companion 
spirits  with  whom  they  were  to  join  in  raising  a 
fair  Utopia. 

The  beauty  of  all  this  republican  rhapsodizing 
was  its  sincerity.  To  be  sure,  it  was  tinged,  in 
Madame  Roland's  case  at  least,  with  a  certain 
bourgeois  jealousy  and  vanity.  She  shared  the 
sentiments  of  the  class  from  which  she  came  —  the 
third  estate.  She  resented  the  superiority  of 
birth,  the  advantages  of  material  splendor,  the 
social  slights   that  she  had  been  made  to  endure 


152  MADAME  EOLANB. 

because  of  her  own  humble  condition.  She  looked 
forward  to  a  new  order  of  things  in  wliich  virtue 
and  talent  were  to  be  the  standards.  And  she  had 
a  presentiment  that  nowhere  were  these  standards 
to  be  found  in  such  perfection  as  in  her  own  little 
circle,  in  the  persons  of  herself,  her  husband,  and 
their  youthful,  Plutarchian  companions.  Such 
self-complacency  is  perhaps  amusing.  We  cannot 
wonder  that  some  adverse  critics  have  seen  fit  to 
satirize  it.  And  yet  it  came  of  an  honest  and  just 
enthusiasm.  We  may  smile  at  Madame  Roland 
and  her  friends,  but  we  smile  indulgently.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  love  that  inspiring  group  of 
patriots  whose  tragic  fate  has  irradiated  them. 
We  forget  their  short-comings  in  the  thought  of 
their  triumphant  constancy  and  courage. 

Brief  pen  portraits  of  the  foremost  of  the  Girond, 
done  with  Madame  Roland's  distinct  and  vivid 
touch,  have  come  down  to  us.  We  are  permitted 
to  see  these  men  in  action,  confidentially,  in  the 
privacy  of  the  Roland's  salon.  There  are  the  im- 
petuous Gaudet,  the  two  deliberate  Gensenne,  and 
Vergniaud,  the  poet  orator,  whose  downcast  eyes 
that  "could  so  lighten  under  the  magic  power  of 
speech"  madame  "  distrusted,"  she  knew  not 
"  wherefore."  In  vain  she  searched  among  them 
for  one  able  and  powerful  enough  to  be  their 
leader.  Each  was  lacking  in  some  essential  point. 
Even  when  she  urged  Brissot  to  assume  command, 
she  did  so  doubtingly,  believing  him  to  be  "exces- 


MADAME  ItOLAND.  153 

sively  hopeful  and  of  a  pliant  and  even  guileless 
nature.''  Her  husband  she  knew  to  be  too  inflex- 
ible for  all  practical  purposes.  He  with  his  thin 
white  hair  plastered  stiffly  down,  his  sombre  dress, 
and  his  buckleless  shoes  contributed  to  that  youtli- 
ful  group  the  dignity  and  austerity  of  age. 
Madame  Roland,  it  was  said,  might  have  passed 
for  his  daughter,  so  fresh  and  brilliant  was  her 
complexion,  so  singularly  youthful  her  air  of 
blended  candor  and  reserve.  She  it  was  who  was 
called  the  "  soul  "  of  the  Girond.  She  inspired, 
she  inflamed,  she  encouraged  vvith  unceasing 
energy.  Could  she,  it  has  been  asked,  had  she 
been  a  man,  have  acted  as  the  captain  of  the  band, 
have  led  them  on  to  victory?  Some  of  her 
admirers  like  to  think  so. 

Arrived  in  Paris,  the  Rolands  established  them- 
selves in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe.  There  they  lived 
quietly  for  a  few  months.  In  March,  through  the 
influence  of  Brissot  and  other  Girondists  who  at 
that  time  were  controlling  the  Assembly,  Roland 
was  appointed  to  the  Council  of  the  King  as 
Minister  of  the  Interior. 

The  new  office  produced  no  change  in  the 
Rolands'  mode  of  living.  While  residing  officially 
in  an  "  elegant  building "  of  Calonne's  arrange- 
ment, the  Hotel  of  the  Interior,  they  retained  their 
apartment  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe.  IMadame 
Roland  neither  made  nor  received  visits.  She 
entertained  only  the  members  of  the  ministry  and 


154  MADA31E  ROLAND. 

such  deputies  and  political  personages  as  Roland 
desired  to  see.  Roland  persisted  in  his  sombre 
style  of  dress.  The  court  elevated  its  eyebrows 
at  the  ribbon  bows  upon  his  shoes.  He  resembled 
a  Quaker  in  Sunday  costume,  it  declared.  One 
who  saw  the  family  at  this  period  described  the 
minister's  austere  loolvs,  madame's  freshness,  sim- 
plicity, and  youthful ness  of  appearance,  and  the 
child  who  "capered  round  with  hair  rippling  to 
her  waist."  "  You  would  have  said,"  declared  the 
narrator,  "  that  they  were  inhabitants  of  Pennsyl- 
vania transplanted  to  the  salon  of  Monsieur  de 
Calonne." 

It  has  truly  been  stated  that  Madame  Roland 
"  entered  the  ministry  with  her  husband."  She 
had  made  herself,  as  we  know,  indispensable  to 
him  in  his  literary  work  during  the  first  year  of 
their  marriage.  She  had  never  resigned  her  office 
of  assistant  and  adviser.  Now  she  went  over  his 
mail  with  him  every  day,  discussed  with  him  the 
affairs  of  his  office,  and  helped  him  to  decide  the 
course  to  be  pursued.  Many  people,  realizing  her 
influence,  went  to  her  with  their  business  before 
interviewing  Roland. 

The  questions  which,  at  the  time  of  Roland's 
ministry,  were  agitating  the  Assembly  were  the 
edicts  against  the  non-conformist  priests  and  the 
emigres.  The  king  put  his  veto  to  these  measures. 
Thus,  so  Madame  Roland  maintained,  he  gave 
proof  of  his  insincerity.     xVt  length  she  persuaded 


MADAME  liOLAND.  155 

Roland  and  Sevran,  Minister  of  War,  that  Louis 
was  not  to  be  trusted.  During  these  days  France 
was  in  a  bad  way.  Religious  troubles  were  flam- 
ing up  everywhere.  A  contra-revolution  led  by 
the  recalcitrant  priests  was  feared.  In  April  war 
against  the  Austrians  was  declared.  Rumor  had 
it  that  treachery  was  rife,  that  the  king,  the  court 
party,  and  the  officers  of  the  army  were  plotting  to 
receive  the  enemy,  to  massacre  the  patriots,  and  to 
restore  the  old  regime. 

Two  measures  Madame  Roland  recommended 
as  cures  for  all  the  evils  with  which  the  country 
was  visited  :  in  the  first  place,  that  there  should  be 
a  proscription  of  all  the  non-conformist  priests ;  in 
the  second  place,  that  a  camp  of  twenty  thousand 
soldiers  should  be  convoked  to  guard  the  city.  In 
a  spirit  of  patriotic  exaltation  she  seated  herself 
beside  her  table  and  wrote,  under  cover  of  her 
husband's  name,  a  letter  to  the  king,  urging  his 
consent  to  the  two  measures. 

Louis  refused  to  give  his  sanction.  Exasperated 
by  the  pressure  put  upon  him  by  Roland  and  the 
other  Girond  ministers,  he  dismissed  them. 

The  Rolands  left  the  Hotel  of  the  Interior  and 
retired  to  their  little  apartment  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Harpe.  This  moment  of  their  removal  was  one 
of  the  proudest  in  Madame  Roland's  life.  Her 
letter  was  being  read  and  applauded  in  the  As- 
sembly. She  believed  that  it  would  convince  the 
country  of  Louis's  treachery,  that  it  would  lead  to 


156  MADAME  ROLAND. 

a  recall  of  the  Girondist  ministers,  the  deposition 
of  the  king,  and  the  establishment  of  a  republic. 
She  thought  that  she  had  performed  her  mission  of 
"  usefulness  and  glory." 

Madame's  mind,  however,  was  swifter  than  that 
of  the  public.  The  populace,  it  is  true,  assembled, 
armed,  and  visited  the  Assembly  and  the  palace  of 
the  king,  crying:  "Sanction  the  decrees.  Restore 
the  patriot  ministers."  But  there  was  no  mention 
of  deposition  or  a  republic.  The  events  of  Juno  20, 
to  all  appearances,  were  nothing  more  than  an 
unusually  tumultuous  Mardi-gras. 

Reaction  followed.  The  constitutionalists  rallied 
for  a  desperate  stand.  The  court  plotted  with  the 
allies  and  the  emigres  across  the  border  to  strike  a 
blow  that  should  shatter  this  new  and  formidable 
regime. 

In  the  face  of  such  opposition,  the  patriots  re- 
doubled their  efforts.  From  their  seats  in  the 
Assembly  the  Girondist  leaders  made  public  decla- 
ration that  the  country  was  in  danger.  They 
called  upon  the  departments  everywhere  and  the 
sections  of  Paris  to  act.  There  was  an  immediate 
response.  Troops  began  to  collect  from  all  over 
France.  Old  men  and  boys,  even  women  and 
girls,  answered  the  call.  France  offered  its  very  life. 

At  first  the  popular  movement  was  directed  only 
against  the  foreign  foe.  But,  as  the  days  went  on, 
guided  by  the  wills  of  its  abettors,  Robespierre 
in  control  of  the  Jacobin  Club,  Danton,  and  Marat, 


MADAME  ROLAND.  157 

it  changed  its  course.  The  king's  throne  became 
its  goaL  It  advanced  with  a  swiftness  and  a  fury 
that  alarmed  the  more  moderate  minds.  Many  of 
the  Girondists,  among  them  Brissot,  Vergniaud, 
Gaudet,  and  Gensenne,  drew  back  and  sought  to 
cahn  the  passionate  forces  tliey  had  roused.  Madame 
Roland,  however,  pressed  on  undaunted.  It  was 
the  court  part}^,  the  aristocrats,  whom  she  feared, 
not  the  people  of  France.  To  her  the  people  were 
still  a  divine  element,  a  means  by  which  the  salva- 
tion of  the  country  was  to  be  attained.  With  the 
aid  of  her  husband  and  Barbaroux,  a  young 
patriot  from  the  south,  she  urged  on  the  insurrec- 
tion. 

On  August  10  that  which  she  had  so  fer- 
vently and  so  unceasingly  desired  happened.  The 
people  became  the  "sovereign."  A  great  mob 
surged  through  the  city  and  into  the  hall  of  the 
Assembly.  In  accordance  with  the  will  of  the 
new  "  sovereign,"  the  Assembly,  composed  only  of 
its  Girondist  and  Jacobin  members,  voted  the 
suspension  of  the  king,  restored  the  patriot  minis- 
ters to  office,  and  summoned  a  national  convention  to 
decide  on  a  future  free  government  for  France. 
Monarchy  had  fallen  in  a  day.  For  Madame 
Roland  it  was  a  day  of  triumph.  She  believed 
that  her  republic  was  at  hand. 

She  was  soon  to  be  disillusioned,  however.  In 
a  very  little  while  she  was  to  discover  that  the 
people  were  not  that    divinity  she  had    imagined 


158  MADAME  ROLAND. 

them,  that  France  was  not  "  fit "  for  the  republic  of 
which  she  had  dreamed. 

For  a  time  all  went  well.  But  it  was  not  long 
before  her  husband,  restored  to  the  ministry,  found 
himself  opposed  by  an  insurrectionary  element 
among  the  patriots,  a  fierce,  vindictive,  blood- 
thirsty element.  When  he  gave  commands,  they 
were  disregarded.  To  be  sure,  he  represented  the 
law,  it  was  conceded;  but  were  not  the  people 
superior  to  the  law,  it  was  demanded.  Were  they 
not  the  "  saviours  "  of  their  country,  the  "  sover- 
eign "  power  of  France  ?  When,  in  horror,  he 
recoiled  from  the  rule  of  terror,  the  general  pro- 
scription, and  the  September  massacres,  he  was 
branded  as  a  traitor  and  accused  of  being  in  league 
with  the  court  party,  and  of  conspiring  against 
the  unity  and  indivisibility  of  the  republic. 

The  position  of  Roland  and  of  Madame  Roland, 
and  of  all  the  sincere  Girondists,  was  difficult  and 
sad.  They  had  pressed  on  bravely,  hopefully,  fer- 
vently, only  to  find  "a  river  of  blood"  flowing  at 
their  feet.  In  Inimanity,  in  conscience,  they  could 
not  cross  to  the  other  side  with  Danton,  Marat, 
Robespierre,  and  the  others.  They  must  remain 
where  they  were  and  take  their  stand,  perilous 
and  desperate  though  it  was,  against  the  mad 
onrush  of  anarchy. 

They  clung  to  their  dream  so  long  as  it  was 
possible,  believing  it  too  "  beautiful  "  to  abandon. 
But  at  length  that  had  to  go  with  the  rest,  the  lost 
power,  the  lost  hopes,  and  the  lost  friends. 


MAD  A  MB  ROLAND.  159 

]VIa(lame  Roland's  awakening  was  terrible. 
When  she  had  rhapsodized  about  the  divine  right 
of  insurrection,  she  liad  done  so  unknowingly.  All 
alono-  her  enthusiasm  had  been  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  inexperienced  idealist.  Now  she  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  facts,  she  saw  the  people 
armed  with  pikes,  organized  into  brigades,  volcanic 
and  brutal.  The  reality  sickened  her.  "You 
know  my  enthusiasm  for  tlie  Revolution,"  she 
wrote.  "  Well,  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  It  is  stained 
by  these  wretches.  It  has  become  hideous.  It  is 
debasing  to  remain  in  office." 

She  would  not  join  hands  with  the  "  assassins," 
as  she  called  the  insurrectionary  forces.  When 
Danton  made  overtures  to  her,  she  held  coldly 
aloof.  Her  rejection  of  an  alliance  \vith  this 
leader  of  the  people  has  been  termed  a  "  folly," 
and  she  has  been  severely  criticised  therefor. 
She  explained  it  as  the  result  of  an  uncontrollable 
aversion,  a  physical  repugnance.  Danton,  with 
his  passionate  face  and  voice  and  gestures,  harangu- 
ing a  street  mob,  was  an  avenging  spirit  in 
every  way  so  different  from  the  ideal  she  had 
imagined  that  she  turned  from  him  and  his 
measures  in  loathing.  He  cured  her  of  her  love 
of  revolution.  He  made  a  conservative  of 
her. 

It  was  at  this  period,  when  hopes,  ambitions, 
dreams  were  falling  from  her  and  she  was  feeling 
bereft  and  desolate,  that  Madame  Roland  experi- 


160  MADAME  ROLAND. 

enced  the  deepest  and  most  passionate  love  of 
her  life.  Bnzot,  whom  she  had  known  in  those 
early  days  of  the  Revolution,  between  whom  and 
herself  from  the  first  there  had  existed  an  affin- 
ity, a  "  birth  bond,"  one  might  almost  say,  of 
thought  and  sentiment  and  daring  courage,  this 
Buzot  was  in  Paris.  Thither  he  had  come  as 
deputy  to  the  convention,  the  new  legislative 
body  that  had  been  summoned  to  decide  on  the 
future  government  of  France. 

Reflective,  serious,  earnest,  Buzot  satisfied 
Madame  Roland's  most  solemn  needs.  Moreover, 
his  elegant  appearance,  his  courtly  manners,  his 
deference,  and  Ids  attentions  charmed  her.  Then, 
too,  he  was  young,  several  years  younger  than 
herself.  He  had  not  ye,t  become  contaminated  by 
contact  with  the  world.  He  was  not  too  practical 
nor  too  experienced,  nor  cynical,  nor  pessimistic. 
He  still  retained  the  illusions,  the  disinterestedness, 
the  purity,  the  confidence  of  youth.  Madame 
Roland  could  give  her  noblest  to  him,  sure  of  a 
response. 

A  long  correspondence  had  drawn  Buzot  and 
Madame  Roland  nearer  and  nearer  together,  had 
intensified  the  sympathy  that  existed  between  them. 
Thrown  suddenly  into  constant  intercourse  with 
each  other,  at  a  moment  of  grave  crisis,  their 
common  cause,  their  common  danger,  their  close 
affinity,  united  tliem  in  a  love  as  unpremeditated  as 
it  was  inevitable. 


MADAME   ROLAND    AT   THE   GUILLOTINE. 
From  a  painting  by  Royer. 


MADAME  ROLAND.  IGl 

One  of  Madame  Roland's  friends  once  said  of  her 
that  she  possessed  the  "coquetry  of  virtue."  She 
was  forever  reminding  one  of  her  duty,  her  con- 
stancy, and  her  devotion.  Thus  slie  had  provoked 
Bosc  and  Lanthenas  and  liancal,  all  her  admirers 
since  her  marriage,  and  had  ke[)t  matters  between 
herself  and  them  safe  and  "interesting." 

Buzot  was  not  the  first  man  who,  thus  provoked, 
had  loved  Madame  Roland.  But  he  was  the  first 
man  who  had  won  Madame  Roland's  love.  To  the 
honor  of  Madame  Roland  it  should  be  declared  that 
she  did  not  permit  the  love  between  Buzot  and 
herself  to  shake  her  loyalty  to  Roland.  When  the 
Revolution  was  loosening  all  bonds,  tliat  of  matri- 
mony with  the  rest,  and  proclaiming  man's  right 
to  happiness  superior  to  any  law,  Madame  Roland 
preserved,  unimpaired,  lier  fidelity  to  her  marriage 
vows  and  her  belief  in  the  sanctity  of  the 
home. 

Plowever,  with  lier  "  sentimental  need  of  frank- 
ness," she  could  not  forbear  forcing  upon  Roland  a 
confession  of  her  love.  The  old  man  received  the 
news  stoically.  But  his  heart  v/as  broken.  The 
situation  became  tense  and  painful.  Madame 
Roland  thus  described  it :  "  My  husband,  exces- 
sively sensitive  on  account  of  Ids  affection  and  his 
self  respect,  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  tlie  least 
change  in  his  empire ;  he  grew  suspicious,  his 
jealousy  irritated  me.  He  adored  me,  I  sacrificed 
myself  for  him,  and  we  were  unhappy." 


162  MADAME  ROLAND. 

Yet,  in  the  midst  of  this  so  distressing  state  of 
affairs,  the  public  cause  was  not  neglected.  It  was 
attended  to  with  unabated  interest  and  fervor. 
Roland  ran  his  Bureau  of  Public  Opinion,  scattering 
so  far  as  he  was  able  the  vague  teacliings  of  the 
Girondist  school.  Madame  Roland  aided  him,  as 
previously,  in  all  his  literary  labors  and  interviewed 
people  for  him.  And  Buzot,  from  his  seat  in  the  con- 
vention, defended  the  characters  of  Madame  Roland 
and  her  husband  and  fought  the  "Mountain"  bit- 
terly and  fiercely.  No  one  in  all  the  convention  was 
more  sensitive,  more  idealist,  more  indifferent  to 
public  applause  than  he.  He  was  uncompromising, 
passionate  in  his  denunciation  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror.  His  attitude  was  Madame  Roland's  atti- 
tude. The  three  worked  together  unselfishly  and 
nobly.  They  gave  no  sign  of  their  own  inward 
struggles.  To  all  appearances  they  had  no  desires, 
no  aims,  other  than  the  country's  welfare. 

Theirs  was  the  energy  of  despair.  They  knew 
that  they  were  labormg  for  a  lost  cause.  Daily 
the  position  of  the  Girondists  became  more  unten- 
able. Ever  since  the  September  massacres,  when 
they  had  taken  a  stand  against  the  insurrectionary 
movement,  libels  had  been  posted  against  them,  the 
public  journals  published  all  manner  of  scandals 
concerning  them.  In  these  journals  Madame 
Roland  figured  conspicuously.  She  was  repre- 
sented as  having  France  "  in  leading  strings,"  and 
was   accused   of   being   the   real  Minister   of  the 


MADAME   ROLAND.  168 

Interior,  of  squandering  the  national  funds,  and 
pulling  down  Marat's  posters. 

In  December  she  was  summoned  before  the  bar 
of  the  Convention  to  answer  to  the  charge  of 
treason  brought  against  her  husband.  Her  appear- 
ance and  her  pertinent  replies  Avere  loudly  ap- 
plauded, and  she  was  awarded  the  honors  of  the 
session.  For  Madame  Roland,  this  was  an  oppor- 
tunity, a  chance  to  display  her  powers.  Heretofore 
she  had  been  only  an  actor  behind  the  scenes.  Now 
she  stepped  upon  the  stage  and  spoke  directly  to 
her  audience.  One  saw  in  her  bearing  a  radiant 
enjoyment  of  this  active  part. 

The  time  was  not  far  distant  when  she  would 
take  her  place  among  the  prominent  actore  ;  the 
days  of  her  imprisonment  were  close  at  hand. 
Dangers  were  increasing ;  soon  to  insult  and  libel 
attacks  upon  her  personal  safety  were  added.  The 
Hotel  of  the  Interior  was  raided  repeatedly  by  a 
threatening  mob.  "It  seemed,"  wrote  a  friend  who 
was  upon  the  scene,  "  that  every  night  would  be 
the  last  of  her  life."  Flight  was  counselled,  but 
Madame  Roland,  desirous  of  setting  an  example  of 
firmness  to  the  world,  remained  at  her  post  until 
her  husband's  resignation  in  January. 

Her  fall  and  her  husband's  were  simultaneous 
with  that  of  their  friends,  the  Girondists.  On 
May  31  a  deputation  presented  itself  at  the  Rolands' 
apartment  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe  with  an  order 
for  the  arrest  of  the  ex-minister.    Roland,  however, 


164  MADAME  ROLAND. 

succeeded  in  eluding  the  officials  and  making  his 
escape.  Madame  hastened  to  the  Convention,  hop- 
ing by  means  of  her  beauty,  her  intelligence,  and 
her  eloquence  to  obtain  a  hearing  and  secure  her 
husband's  release  and  pardon.  She  found  all  en- 
trances barred.  The  Assembly  was  in  an  uproar 
which,  she  learned  later,  meant  a  demand  for  the 
arrest  of  the  Girondist  leaders,  Brissot,  Vergniaud, 
Gaudet,  Gensenne,  and  those  others  known  as  the 
"  twenty-two."  Madame  Roland  had  to  retire  with 
her  purpose  unfulfilled. 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  next  day  came  her 
own  arrest.  She  offered  no  resistance  to  her  cap- 
tors. She  was  proud  to  be  persecuted,  she  said, 
when  talent  and  honor  were  being  proscribed.  She 
was  glad,  too,  to  be  put  in  a  position  to  decry  pub- 
licly the  tyranny  of  her  enemies.  To  one  who  ex- 
pressed surprise  at  sight  of  her  weeping  household, 
remarking,  " These  people  love  you,"  she  replied: 
"  I  never  have  any  one  about  me  who  does  not." 

With  an  air  of  quiet  dignity  and  a  firm,  intrepid 
step,  she  proceeded  to  the  Abbaye.  The  savage 
cries  of  "  a  la  Guillotine  "  that  met  her  on  the 
street,  the  brutality  of  guards  and  jailers  w^hich  she 
noted  upon  her  arrival  at  the  prison,  the  sound  of 
the  tocsin  ringing  all  night,  the  foul  smells,  the 
oaths  and  obscenity  by  which  she  was  surrounded, 
could  not  shake  her  profound  calm.  Slie  Avas  lifted 
by  sentiment  and  eiithusiasm  above  material  con- 
siderations. 


MADAME  liOLAND.  IGG 

From  her  ciiptivity  at  the  Abbaye  Madame  Roland 
was  set  free  on  June  25,  only  to  be  rearrested  im- 
mediately and  confuied  in  the  prison  of  Saintc  Pela- 
gie.  There  she  remained  until  her  removal  to  the 
Concierjxerie,  two  weeks  before  her  death,  November 
8.  For  one  of  less  exalted  spirit  and  less  energetic 
mind,  these  long  months  of  imprisonment  must  have 
passed  without  purpose  and  without  resource. 
With  Madame  Roland  it  was  otherwise.  She  drew 
inspiration  from  them.  For  her  they  were  the 
moment  of  her  trial.  She  had  entered  upon  the 
stage  of  public  virtues,  she  believed.  She  felt  the 
eyes  of  all  posterity  upon  her.  The  time  had  come, 
she  thought,  for  her  to  range  herself  with  the  spirits 
of  antiquity.  She  must  act  nobly,  endure  bravely, 
in  order  to  be  enrolled  among  those  chosen  ones. 
"  With  Socrates  "  she  must  "  drink  the  hemlock  ;  " 
"  with  Agis "  she  must  "  bend  her  neck  to  the 
axe." 

These  inward  convictions  were  Madame  Roland's 
one  stimulus,  her  sole  comfort.  Of  outward  helps 
she  had  none.  She  was  separated  from  her  child. 
Her  husband  was  in  hiding.  Buzot,  whom  she 
loved,  had  been  proscribed  by  the  "  Mountain  "  on 
June  2,  and  was  a  fugitive.  Her  friends,  the 
majority  of  them,  were  imprisoned,  threatened  with 
the  penalty  of  death.  As  to  her  own  fate  she  was 
under  no  illusion.  Clearly  she  saw  before  her  the 
awful  shadow  of  the  guillotine.  All  her  early 
hopes  and   dreams  and   happiness  were  "  sunk  in 


166  MADAME  ROLANh. 

blood  and  mire."  Her  "  beautiful  Plutarcliian  re- 
public "  had  vanished,  dispelled  by  ''  the  horror  and 
corruption  of  one  city."  Only  from  the  inexhaust- 
ive  springs  of  her  own  soul  did  slie  derive  her  he- 
roic strength  and  courage. 

Viewed  in  her  most  lofty  attitude,  the  pedestaled 
position  which  she  had  assumed,  Madame  Roland 
seems  to  us  cold,  remote,  and  unreal.  It  is,  per- 
haps, pleasanter  to  view  her  in  her  more  human  as- 
pects. Her  triumphant  cheerfulness  and  industry, 
which  did  not  fail  her  even  at  her  prison  door,  fills 
us  with  admiration.  She  was  lodged  in  a  rude  and 
stuffy  little  cell.  So  revolting  were  the  people 
by  whom  she  was  surrounded  that  she  rarely  left 
her  "  cage."  From  the  street,  beneath  the  grat- 
ing of  her  window,  she  could  hear  the  hawkers  of 
Pere  Duchesne's  journal  shouting  her  name,  coup- 
ling it  with  calumnies  which  the  market  people 
caught  up,  declaring  against  her  loudly  and  rudely. 
She  endeavored  to  shut  all  this  from  her  conscious- 
ness. With  flowers  which  the  faitliful  Bosc  sup- 
plied, and  with  books  which  her  friends  lent  her, 
she  transformed  her  cell  into  an  abode  so  pleasant 
that  her  jailers  called  it  "  Flora's  Pavilion."  Here 
she  led  a  busy  life.  In  the  morning  she  sketched 
and  studied  English,  the  essay  of  Shaftsbury  on 
virtue  and  Thompson's  poetiy.  After  dinner  her 
serious  work  began. 

This  serious  work  was  her  writing.  To  vindicate 
her  friends,  her  liusband,  and  herself  in  the  eyes  of 


MADAME  ROLAND.  167 

posterity,  to  secure  in  liistory  tlie  recognition  that 
her  own  generation  had  denied,  this  was  her  pur- 
pose. Historical  notes,  private  memoirs,  last 
thoughts  fell  rapidly  from  her  pen.  All  was  done 
easily,  gracefully,  and  with  a  real  joy  in  the  telling. 
Critics  have  seen  fit  to  ridicule  the  spirit  of  self- 
adulation  which  characterizes  these  productions. 
But  when  one  takes  into  consideration  the  author's 
aim  and  the  stress  under  which  she  wrote,  one  finds 
this  spirit  less  humorous  than  pathetic.  We  see 
the  poor  prisoner  in  her  cell,  misjudged  and  calum- 
niated, robbed  of  all  she  held  most  dear,  lier  family, 
her  friends,  and  the  cause  which  she  had  so  fondly 
and  so  ardently  cherished,  we  behold  her  travers- 
ing alone  the  solemn  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  Her 
consciousness  of  her  own  rectitude  consoles  her. 
We  would  be  unkind,  indeed,  could  we  not  forgive 
her  this  consolation. 

She  wrote  of  her  mother  and  her  father,  of  fair 
Mendon,  of  the  Convent  of  the  Congregation,  of 
Sophie,  of  her  quiet,  studious,  happy  youth.  As 
she  told  her  story,  the  prison  receded  and  with  it 
her  many  sorrows  and  the  thought  of  her  approach- 
ing death.  The  old  days  returned.  She  lived  her 
youth  again,  loving  it,  idealizing  it. 

She  was  interrupted,  however.  At  different 
times  news  was  brought  her  of  some  fresh  atrocity 
of  the  Convention,  of  the  arrest  of  one  friend,  of 
the  condemnation  and  death  of  another;  of  the 
trial  of  the  Girondists  to  which,  she  said,  she  had 


168  MADAME  ROLAND. 

waited  to  be  called,  "as  a  soul  in  pain  awaits  its 
liberator,"  but  to  which  she  was  not  called ;  of  the 
execution  of  the  twenty-one ;  Buzot  was  being 
tracked  from  hiding-place  to  hiding-place,  she 
was  informed,  his  discovery  was  almost  certain; 
Bosc,  whom  up  to  the  middle  of  October  she  had 
seen  regularly,  was  proscribed  and  obliged  to  fly; 
she  could  no  longer  receive  direct  news  of  her  child 
and  her  husband. 

Her  sadness  and  her  despair  became  intense.  In 
many  places  tears  stained  her  manuscript.  Her 
narrative  stopped  suddenly  here  and  there  "  as 
with  a  cry  or  sob."  Her  self-control,  her  pride, 
her  courage  Avere  almost  more  than  human,  but 
there  were  times  when  her  anguisli  was  mightier 
than  these.  "  Before  jon  she  collects  her  strength," 
said  an  attendant  to  her  fellow  captives,  "  but  in 
her  own  cell  she  remains,  sometimes  for  hours, 
leaning  against  her  window  weeping."  "  Alas  !  " 
wrote  Madame  Roland  in  one  of  her  last  letters  to 
Bosc,  "  I  know  now  what  it  is,  the  malady  that  the 
English  call  heartbreak." 

As  the  hour  of  her  death  approached,  no  one 
could  have  had  greater  proof  than  Madame  Roland 
that  she  was  beloved.  The  friend  of  her  girlhood, 
Henriette  Cannet,  the  gay,  the  impulsive,  the  kind- 
hearted,  since  married,  a  widow  and  childless, 
visited  her  in  her  prison,  offering  to  change  gar- 
ments with  her,  to  take  her  place  and  risk  death 
for  her.     Madame  Roland  refused   tliis  proffer  of 


MADAME  ROLAND.  169 

help  as  she  did  all  others  tliat  would  endanger 
another.  To  Biizot  and  Roland,  both  of  whom 
were  eager  to  attempt  licr  escape,  she  wrote  entreat- 
ing them  to  make  no  imprudent  efforts  on  her  behalf. 
"  It  is  by  saving  your  country  that  you  deliver  me," 
she  declared.  Slio  urged  them,  so  long  as  they 
breathed  and  were  free,  to  think  only  of  their 
country,  to  live  only  for  tlieir  country.  "  Brutus 
on  the  field  of  Philippi  despaired  too  soon,"  she  said. 
Dying  before  her  lover  and  her  husband,  Madame 
Roland  was  spared  the  knowledge  of  their  failures 
and  tragic  deaths.  Of  Buzot  it  is  related  that 
when  news  reached  him  of  her  death,  he  said 
nothing,  but  was  for  several  days  like  one  "  who 
has  lost  liis  senses."  fie  was  a  hopeless  fugitive 
at  the  time.  After  days  of  wandering,  privation, 
and  despair,  the  end  came  to  him,  no  one  knows 
just  how.  His  body,  beside  that  of  Petion,  was 
found  in  a  wheat  field,  half  eaten  by  wolves.  As 
for  Roland,  he  received  the  word  that  his  wife  had 
been  guillotined  as  his  own  death  warrant.  He 
made  a  will  providing  for  Eudora,  said  good-bye  to 
the  friends  who  were  sheltering  him,  and  proceeded 
to  a  retired  spot  on  the  roadside  beneath  the  shade 
of  a  tree.  There  he  seated  himself  and  deliberately 
ran  a  cane  sword  into  his  breast.  The  next  morn- 
ing he  was  discovered  dead,  with  this  note  on  his 
person,  "  I  left  my  refuge  as  soon  as  I  heard  that 
my  wife  had  been  murdered.  I  desire  to  remain  no 
longer  in  a  world  covered  witli  crime." 


170  MADAME  BOLAND. 

Madame  Roland's  deatli  had  more  of  glory  in  it 
than  those  of  her  lover  and  husband.  On  Novem- 
ber 1  she  was  confined  in  the  Conciergerie,  the 
prison  above  the  door  of  wliich  was  written  the  warn- 
ing to  abandon  hope.  The  day  before  the  Giron- 
dists had  left  it  to  go  to  their  execution.  The 
inmates  of  the  prison  were  just  recovering  from 
the  shock  of  that  last  horror.  They  looked  with 
curiosity,  mingled  with  pity,  upon  the  illustrious 
woman  who  was  entering,  the  friend  of  the  men 
who  had  just  departed,  whose  own  fate  they  knew 
and  knew  that  she  herself  knew  was  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. They  could  discover  no  sign  of  weakness  in 
her  bearing.  Never  had  she  been  calmer,  more 
assured  than  at  this  moment  when  she  was  warned 
that  she  must  abandon  hope. 

The  glimpses  that  we  have  of  her  from  the  pens 
of  her  fellow-prisoners  bring  her  before  us  very 
attractively.  "  From  the  time  of  her  arrival," 
wrote  one,  "  the  apartment  of  Madame  Roland 
became  an  asylum  of  peace  in  the  bosom  of  this 
hell.  If  she  descended  into  the  court,  her  simple 
presence  restored  good  order,  and  the  abandoned 
women  there,  on  whom  no  other  power  exerted  an 
influence,  were  restrained  by  the  fear  of  displeasing 
her.  She  gave  alms  to  the  most  needy,  and  to  all 
counsel,  consolation,  and  hope."  And  another 
said,  "  Something  more  than  is  generally  found  in 
the  look  of  woman  beamed  from  her  eyes,  which 
were  large,  dark,  and  brilliant.     She  often  spoke 


MADAME  ROLAND.  171 

to  me  at  the  grating  with  the  freedom  and  energy 
of  a  great  man.  We  used  to  gather  round  her  and 
listen  in  a  kind  of  admiring  wonder." 

On  tlie  day  after  her  arrival  she  was  questioned 
by  the  Tribunal.  Two  days  later  she  was  further 
examined.  She  went  from  the  prison,  composed. 
She  returned  deeply  agitated,  her  eyes  wet  with 
tears.  All  that  she  could  say,  she  discovered,  was 
useless.  She  was  the  friend  of  the  Girond. 
Therein  was  her  great  crime. 

On  November  7  the  witnesses  against  her  were 
heard.  The  Girondists  had  frequented  Madame 
Roland's  house.  That  was  the  substance  of  the 
testimony.  Nothing  further  could  be  proved 
by  it. 

The  night  of  that  day  Chauveau  Lagarde,  a 
courageous  young  lawyer,  who  was  ambitious  to 
undertake  Madame  Roland's  defence,  called  upon 
her.  She  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say  atten- 
tively, but  without  hope.  When  he  had  finished, 
she  did  not  speak,  but  drew  a  ring  from  her  finger 
and  handed  it  to  him.  The  young  man  understood 
the  act  to  be  one  of  farewell.  "  Madame,"  he  said, 
much  affected,  "we  shall  meet  to-morrow  after  the 
sentence."  "  To-morrow,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall 
not  be  alive.  I  value  your  services,  but  they 
might  prove  fatal  to  you.  You  would  ruin  your- 
self without  saving  me.  Spare  me  the  pain  of 
putting  the  life  of  a  good  man  in  danger.  Do  not 
come  to  the  court,  for  I  shall  disclaim  you  if   you 


172  MADAME  ROLAND. 

do,  but  accept  the  only  token  my  gratitude  can 
offer.     To-morrow  I  shall  exist  no  more." 

The  next  day,  November  8,  was  the  trial.  That 
morning,  as  she  left  her  cell  to  await  her  summons 
to  the  bar,  it  was  noted  that  she  had  dressed  herself 
with  the  utmost  care.  She  had  never  looked  so 
radiant.  She  wore  a  gown  of  white  muslin  trimmed 
with  blonde  lace  and  fastened  with  a  black  velvet 
girdle.  Her  dark  hair  flowed  loosely  below  her 
waist.  Comte  Bengnot  joined  her.  "  Her  face," 
he  wrote,  "  seemed  to  me  more  animated  than 
usual,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  tlie  lips.  With 
one  hand  she  held  up  the  train  of  her  robe ;  the 
other  she  abandoned  to  the  prisoners  Avho  pressed 
forward  to  kiss  it.  Those  who  realized  the  fate 
that  awaited  her  sobbed  about  her  and  commended 
her  to  God.  Madame  responded  to  all  with  affec- 
tionate kindness.  She  did  not  promise  to  return, 
she  did  not  say  she  was  going  to  her  death,  but  her 
last  words  to  them  were  touching  counsels.  .  .  . 
I  delivered  my  message  to  her  in  the  passage.  She 
replied  in  a  few  words  spoken  in  a  firm  voice.  She 
had  begun  a  sentence  when  two  officers  from  the 
interior  called  her  to  tlie  bar.  At  tliis  summons, 
terrible  for  another,  she  stopped,  pressed  my  hand, 
and  said,  '  Good-bye,  sir,  it  is  time.'  Raising  her 
eyes,  she  saw  that  I  was  trying  to  repress  luy  tears. 
She  seemed  moved  and  added  but  two  words, 
'  Have  courage.' " 

The  tribunal  awaited  her  and  the  charge  of  Ijeing 


MADAME   ROLAND.  173 

an  accomplice  in  a  "  liorrible  conspiracy  against 
the  unity  and  indivisibility  of  the  republic,  the 
liberty  and  surety  of  the  French  people." 

She  came  from  her  trial  with  the  look  as  of  one 
acquitted.  But  to  the  inquiring  glances  of  her 
friends,  she  answered  witli  a  gesture  that  signified 
death.  The  cart  in  whicli  she  was  to  make  her  last 
journey  stood  ready  in  the  court-yard. 

Many  before  her  had  taken  that  jolting  journey 
from  the  Conciergerie  to  the  Place  de  la  Guillotine. 
No  one  had  travelled  it  with  "  a  more  sublime  in- 
difference to  its  terrors  "  than  she.  One  who  saw  her 
as  she  passed  described  her  as  standing  upright 
and  calm  in  the  tumbrel,  her  eyes  shining,  her  color 
fresh  and  brilliant,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  as  she 
tried  to  cheer  her  companion,  an  old  man  overcome 
b}'  the  fear  of  approaching  death.  The  mob  fol- 
lowed and  cursed  her,  but  they  could  not  reach  the 
heights  where  her  soul  had  soared. 

At  the  foot  of  the  scaffold  she  paused,  asking  for 
pen  and  paper  to  write  "  the  strange  thoughts  that 
were  arising  in  her."  Her  request  was  refused. 
Sanson,  the  executioner,  grasped  her  arm  and  urged 
her  to  mount.  She  drew  back,  begging  that  her 
companion,  the  old  man,  be  permitted  to  go  first 
and  thereby  escape  the  pain  of  seeing  her  die. 
Sanson  objected.  It  was  the  rule,  he  said,  that  the 
woman  must  die  first.  She  looked  into  his  face, 
smiling.  "  Can  you  refuse  a  lady's  last  request  ?  " 
she  asked.     Sanson  complied. 


174  MADAME  ROLAND. 

At  length  her  turn  came.  White  robed  and  with 
flowing  hair,  the  smile  still  lingering  on  her  lips, 
and  "  the  look  as  of  a  great  man  "  shining  in  her 
eyes,  she  ascended  the  scaffold.  As  they  Avere 
binding  her  to  the  plank,  her  gaze  rested  on  the 
statue  of  liberty  erected  to  celebrate  the  tenth  of 
August.  "  O,  liberte,"  she  exclaimed,  "  comme  on 
t'  a  jouee."  Her  number  was  called.  Her  life  was 
told. 

Perhaps  no  scene  in  the  whole  drama  of  Madame 
Roland's  life  is  more  fitting  than  this  closing  one. 
The  thoughts  wliich  she  had  been  forbidden  to 
express,  we  may  be  sure,  were  thoughts  of  elation, 
even  of  joy.  She  was  dying  the  death  of  which 
she  had  dreamed  —  the  death  of  the  warrior,  young, 
brave,  and  defiant,  of  one  slain  honorably  in  the 
fight.  With  her  prophetic  vision,  she  looked  into 
the  future,  saw  the  end  of  the  evil  days,  saw  order 
and  peace  restored  to  her  land,  and  saw  her  own 
name,  as  the  name  of  a  hero,  inscribed  in  her 
country's  story.  And,  in  her  heart,  forever  con- 
stant in  its  fervor,  she  thanked  God  that  she  had 
been  permitted  to  make  this  sacrifice. 


MADAME    LE    BRUN. 


Born  at  Paris,  April  IC,  1755. 
Died  at  Paris,  May  2?,  1S42. 


"  The  gentle  painter  of  portraits  who  was  everybody's  friend." 
—  Tallentyre. 

We  all  know  Madame  Le  Brim.  We  have  seen 
her  with  her  palette  and  her  canvass ;  and  again 
in  the  straw  hat  that  suggests  the  famous  painting 
by  Rubens ;  and  yet  again  with  her  daughter  in 
her  arms  and  the  light  of  sweet  maternity  shining 
in  her  eyes.  She  appears  before  us  in  a  variety  of 
poses,  yet  she  is  always  the  same  —  curly  haired, 
simply  dressed,  and  with  that  suggestion  of  a  smile 
parting  her  lips  and  softly  lighting  her  pretty,  oval 
face.  We  are,  of  course,  attracted  to  her.  We 
are  interested  to  learn  her  story. 

She  herself  has  told  her  story  in  her  memoirs. 
She  has  told  it  naively,  vivaciously,  and  in  a  way 
that  constantly  reminds  us  of  that  smile  which  we 
behold  in  all  her  portraits  of  herself. 

Her  life  was  not  exciting  or  eventful.  She  was 
not  one  to  go  down  to  the  depths.  She  lived,  for 
the  most  part,  peaceably,  pleasantly,  graciously,  on 
the  surface.  She  was  an  artist  and  a  Bohemian, 
careless  of  money,  regardless  of  the  future,  yet 
kind  and  generous  and  friendly  to  all.     She  was 

175 


176  MADAME  LE  BBUN. 

irresponsible,  a  little  eccentric  perhaps,  yet  every- 
body loved  her. 

When  Madame  Le  Brun  was  making  the  jour- 
ney to  Naples,  her  travelling  companion  was  a 
gentleman  of  unenthusiastic  temperament.  As 
they  Avere  crossing  the  Pontine  marshes  together, 
madame  called  his  attention  to  a  shepherd  seated 
on  the  banks  of  the  canal,  his  sheep  browsing  in  a 
field  carpeted  with  flowers,  and  beyond  the  sea  and 
Cape  Circee.  "  This  would  make  a  charming  pict- 
ure," she  said.  "The  sheep  are  all  dirty,"  the 
gentleman  replied.  Further  on  she  expressed 
admiration  for  the  clouds  surrounding  the  line  of 
the  Appennines  and  lighted  by  the  setting  sun. 
"  Those  clouds,"  he  said,"  only  promise  us  rain  for 
to-morrow."  And  later,  when  the  city  was  in  sight, 
and  they  were  passing  between  hedges  of  wild  rose 
and  scented  myrtle,  she  could  not  repress  an  excla- 
mation of  delight.  Her  companion  shrugged  his 
shouldei-s.  "  I  prefer  the  sunny  slopes  of  Bordeaux 
that  promise  good  wine,"  he  observed. 

Madame  Le  Brun,  we  may  be  sure,  was  not  sorry 
to  say  good-bye  to  this  uncongenial  gentleman. 
She  called  him  her  "extinguisher."  Fortunately 
she  did  not  encounter  many  "  extinguishers  "  in  her 
life.  Everywhere  she  met  with  sympathy,  appre- 
ciation, and  success. 

Upon  her  entry  into  Naples,  and  alwaj's,  the 
world  was  a  picture  for  INIadame  Le  Brun.  And 
it  is  as  a  picture  that  her  book  of  memoirs  reflects 


MADAME    LE   BRUN. 
From  the  painting  by  herself. 


MADAME  LE  lUiUN.  177 

the  world.  This  Look  has  no  chronology  or 
sequence  ;  it  discloses  no  theories  or  systems.  But 
it  is  full  of  light  and  color  and  anecdote  and  amus- 
ing comment. 

Reading  the  memoirs  of  Madame  Le  Brun, 
making  with  lier  the  tour  of  the  continent,  we,  too, 
behold  the  world  with  artist's  eyes.  At  Venice  we 
float  down  the  Grand  Canal  in  a  gilded  gondola, 
and  see  the  Doge  draw  the  ring  from  his  finger 
and  throw  it  into  the  waves,  and  we  hear  a  thousand 
guns  from  the  shore  announcing  this  marriage  of 
the  Doge  to  the  sea.  At  Naples  we  sit  in  Sir 
William  Hamilton's  casino  and  watch  the  small 
boys  dive  for  pennies  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay. 
At  St.  Petersburg  we  behold  the  breaking  up  of 
the  ice  on  the  Neva.  We  follow  the  progress  of 
those  daring  spirits  who  cross  the  river,  jumping 
from  block  to  block  of  floating  ice,  and  of  that 
triumphant  one  who,  having  been  the  first  to  reach 
the  further  shore  in  a  boat,  presents  the  emperor 
with  a  silver  cup,  and  receives  it  back  filled  with 
gold  from  the  imperial  hand.  In  the  presence  of 
scenes  so  picturesque  and  brilliant,  dull  things,  such 
as  dates  and  facts,  which  things,  indeed,  appear  to 
have  had  no  existence  for  Madame  Le  Brun,  are 
quite  forgotten.  With  her  it  is  enough  to  drift 
along  with  eyes  alert  and  a  heart  in  tune  with 
nature  and  humanity. 

It  is  thus  she  herself  drifted  into  the  world. 
Elizabeth  Louise  Vigee  she  was  called.     At  first 


178  MADAME  LE  BRUN. 

she  was  remarkable  only  because  of  lier  talent. 
With  her  deep-set  eyes  and  her  pale,  thin  face  she 
was  not  at  all  pretty.  Her  mother,  who  was  beau- 
tiful and  proud,  preferred  Elizabeth's  younger 
brother,  a  handsome,  precocious  little  fellow.  But 
Elizabeth  was  her  father's  favorite.  Monsieur 
Vigee,  a  kindly  Bohemian  sort  of  man,  was  himself 
an  artist  of  moderate  ability.  He  was  delighted 
when  one  evening  his  little  daughter,  then  seven 
years  of  age,  brought  him  a  picture  of  a  man  with 
a  beard  which  she  had  drawn  by  lamplight.  "  Thou 
wilt  be  a  painter,  my  child,"  he  said,  "  if  ever  there 
was  one." 

Elizabeth  drew  always  and  everywhere,  during 
study  hours  and  play  hours,  on  her  copy  books,  on 
the  wall,  and  on  the  sand.  She  was  placed  in  a 
convent  at  the  age  of  six,  and  remained  there  until 
she  was  eleven.  When  she  was  twelve  years  old 
her  father  died.  The  family  was  poor,  and 
mademoiselle's  talent  was  soon  turned  to  account. 
The  painters  Doyen  and  Briard  instructed  and 
encouraged  her.  She  painted  portraits  and  land- 
scapes and  sold  them.  The  money  that  they 
brought  in  not  only  supported  herself,  but  helped  to 
pay  her  mother's  housekeeping  expenses  and 
bought  her  brother's  school-books  for  him. 

She  worked  earnestly  and  industriously.  She 
haunted  the  Louvre  and  the  Palace  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  copied  paintings  by  Rubens  and  Rem- 
brandt and  Vandyke  and  several  heads  of  young 


MADAME  LE  BRUN.  179 

girls  by  Greuze.  She  luaclo  the  acquaintance  of 
the  painter  Joseph  Vernet.  He  gave  her  excellent 
advice.  "My  child,"  he  said,  "  do  not  follow  any 
particular  school.  Nature  is  the  best  master.  If 
you  study  it  diligently  you  will  never  get  into  any 
mannerisms." 

Meanwhile,  mademoiselle,  who  was  absorbed  in 
her  work  and  had  no  time  to  dream  of  beaux  and 
parties,  had  nevertheless  grown  pretty.  Even  her 
beautiful  mamma,  who  had  always  been  so  critical, 
was  satisfied  with  the  appearance  of  her  daughter. 
Certain  young  men  who  came  to  her  studio  to  have 
their  portraits  painted  by  her  were  something  more 
than  satisfied.  They  wanted  to  gaze  at  her  with 
tender  glances  (^las  yeiix  tendres').  But  she,  the 
little  tease,  always  painted  them  with  "eyes 
averted,"  and  at  the  least  wandering  of  tliose  eyes 
in  her  direction  arrested  them  with  a  demure,  "  I 
am  just  at  the  eyes,  monsieur." 

It  was  not  long  before  Elizabeth's  beautiful 
mamma  presented  her  with  a  step-father.  She  did 
not  like  her  beau  pere.  She  called  him  detestable. 
The  money  that  her  painting  brought  in  he  appro- 
priated. She,  who  was  always  so  generous  and  free 
with  her  money,  forgave  this.  But  she  could  not 
forgive  his  wearing  the  clothes  that  had  once 
belonged  to  her  own  dear  papa. 

It  was  as  much  as  anything  to  escape  from  this 
beau  jyere  that  Mademoiselle  Vigee  consented  to 
marry  Monsieur  Le  Brun.     Monsieur  Le  Brun  was 


180  MADAME  LE  BRUN. 

the  owner  of  some  valuable  masterpieces  of  art. 
He  lent  them  to  Mademoiselle  Vigee  to  copy.  He 
became  mterested  in  mademoiselle's  talent.  There 
Avas  a  fortune  in  it  he  thought.  He  determined  to 
marry  it. 

Mademoiselle  Vigee  was  twenty  years  old  when 
she  became  the  wife  of  Monsieur  Le  Brun.  That 
freshness,  that  delicacj",  that  sweetness  which  she 
put  into  her  pictures  was  in  her  own  young  soul. 
She  had  lived  all  her  life  in  her  painting,  her  one 
passion.  She  had  read  and  studied  very  little. 
She  was  as  innocent  as  a  child.  On  the  day  of  her 
wedding,  on  her  way  to  church,  she  kept  asking 
herself,  "Shall  I  say  'yes'  or  shall  I  say  'no'?" 
It  was  a  toss-up  wdiether  or  not  she  should  marry 
Monsieur  Le  Brun,  and  just  by  chance  the  "  yes  " 
had  it. 

She  found  she  had  exchanged  old  troubles  for 
new  ones.  Her  husband  was  as  prodigal  with  the 
money  she  made  as  her  heaii  pere  had  been.  He 
dissipated  it  completely,  and  she  was  able  to  save 
only  a  few  francs  for  herself. 

For  a  while,  to  increase  her  income,  she  took 
pupils.  One  morning  she  entered  her  studio  to 
find  that  her  pupils  had  constructed  a  swing  there 
and  were  having  a  jolly  time  with  it.  She  deliv- 
ered them  a  little  lecture  on  their  levity.  But  the 
swing  proved  too  enticing  for  their  mistress,  who 
was  as  young  and  blithe  and  girlish  as  any  of  her 
pupils.       She    suddenly    broke    off    her    lecture, 


MADAME  LE  BRUN.  181 

laughed,  and  tried  the  swing  herself.  Tliis  epi- 
sode decided  her  that  she  was  too  Hvely  to  he  a 
teacher.  She  dismissed  her  class,  and  told  them 
not  to  come  again. 

In  truth  she  had  no  time  for  teaching.  She  had 
too  many  portraits  on  her  hands.  She  could  not 
execute  all  her  orders.  Court  ladies,  nohlemen, 
men  of  mark,  Calonne,  minister  of  Finance,  the 
queen  herself,  none  were  too  great  to  sit  before 
this  charming  girl  artist  with  the  clever  brush. 
They  all  praised  her  work  and  courted  her  and 
loved  her. 

She  made  many  friends,  and  was  being  asked  out 
constantly.  At  lirst,  having  a  strong  liking  for 
good  company  and  merriment,  she  accepted  all  her 
invitations.  One  day,  however,  when  she  was 
dressed  to  go  out  and  waiting  for  her  carriage,  she 
went  to  her  studio  for  a  moment,  just  to  look  at  one 
of  her  portraits  she  said.  Before  she  knew  wdiat 
she  was  doing,  she  was  sitting  down  opposite  her 
easel  and  working  busily.  When  she  came  to  get 
up  she  found  she  had  been  sitting  on  her  palette. 
The  condition  of  her  gow^n,  all  smeared  with  paint, 
convinced  her  that  she  could  not  combine  work  and 
frivolity.  She  determined  thereafter  to  devote  all 
of  the  precious  daylight  to  her  art,  and  to  make 
only  evening  engagements. 

She  was  a  careless,  irresponsible  young  woman, 
this  charming  artist.  Her  friends  sometimes 
called  her  a  "tomboy."     In  her  blouse  and  with 


182  MADAME  LE  BRUK. 

her  round  curly  head  she  looked,  when  at  work, 
very  like  a  mischievous  little  boy.  She  made  no 
preparations  for  the  reception  of  her  daughter  in 
the  world.  On  the  day  that  the  child  was  born 
she  spent  all  her  time  before  her  easel  painting  her 
"  Venus  tying  the  wings  of  Cupid."  She  was  so 
lost  in  her  art  that  she  had  no  other  thought,  until 
Madame  Verdun,  an  old  friend,  came  and  reminded 
her. 

It  was  different  when  she  had  her  little  daugh- 
ter in  her  arms.  Then  she  experienced  a  happiness 
greater  even  than  that  which  her  art  had  given  her. 
She  could  now  paint  the  better  for  her  love  she  said. 

It  was  in  1779,  shortly  after  the  birth  of  her 
daughter,  that  Madame  Le  Brun  painted  her  first 
portrait  of  the  queen.  After  that  she  painted 
numerous  portraits  of  Her  Majesty.  At  first 
Madame  Le  Brun  felt  shy  in  the  presence  of  the 
queen.  One  day,  in  embarrassment,  she  dropped  her 
brushes.  Marie  Antoinette  herself  stooped  and 
picked  them  up,  and  with  a  kind,  encouraging  smile 
put  the  modest  little  artist  at  her  ease.  After  that 
they  were  very  good  friends,  and  sang  duets  to- 
gether during  the  sittings.  To  herself,  however, 
IMadame  Le  Brun  was  forced  to  confess  that  the 
queen  did  not  always  sing  "  in  tune." 

Madame  also  pamted  the  portrait  of  monsieur, 
brother  of  the  king,  afterwards  Louis  XVIII. 
He,  too,  sang  in  her  presence,  songs  that  seemed  to 
her  decidedly  "  rubbish."     His  voice  was  still  less 


MADAME  LE  BTtUN.  183 

in  tune  tlian  the  qvieen's,  madame  decided,  "  How- 
do  you  think  I  sing,  Madame  Le  Brun?  "  he  inquired. 
"  Like  a  prince,"  she  replied.  Shy  and  unconven- 
tional though  she  was,  she  was  still  a  little  of  a 
diplomat. 

While  she  was  painting  these  portraits  of  the 
royal  family,  Madame  Le  Brun  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  king.  He  talked  with  her,  and  at  his 
praise  she,  who  was  always  so  na'ive  and  charming, 
blushed  with  pleasure.  "  I  do  not  understand  much 
about  painting,"  he  said,  "  but  j^ou  have  made  me 
love  it." 

This  patronage  of  "  the  elite  "  helped  to  establish 
Madame  Le  Brun's  success.  She  was  already  rec- 
ognized as  a  celebrity.  She  was  applauded  at  the 
theatre  and  at  the  Academic  Francaise.  She  was 
made  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Painting. 

All  this  time  she  lived  very  modestly  in  the  Rue 
de  Clery.  Most  of  the  house  was  occupied  by 
Monsieur  Le  Brun's  fine  collection  of  pictures. 
Only  a  very  small  suite  of  rooms  was  reserved  for 
the  mistress.  But  here  she  resided  contently,  and 
worked  busily  and  received  her  friends.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  court  and  men  of  mark  in  lit- 
erature and  art  attended  her  receptions.  She  said 
that  they  came  to  see  each  other,  but  they  them- 
selves knew,  if  she  did  not,  that  they  came  to  see 
her.  She  was  delightfully  natural  and  unceremoni- 
ous with  her  guests.  When  there  were  not  chairs 
enough  to  go  round  some  sat  on  the  floor.     Occa- 


184  MADAME  LE  BEUN. 

sionally  the  fattest  of  them,  the  Marshal  de  Noailles, 
had  difficulty  in  getting  up  again.  Then  every  one 
laughed.  Madame  entertained  her  company  with 
music  and  impromptu  theatricals,  and  once  she  gave 
them  a  Greek  supper.  She  dressed  them  all  in 
antique  costumes  borrowed  from  her  studio.  They 
ate  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  chorus  of  Gliick's 
and  the  music  of  the  lyre,  and  were  served  by 
madame's  daughter  and  another  little  girl,  two 
pretty  children,  each  bearing  an  ancient  vase.  The 
whole  affair  was  very  novel  and  picturesque. 
Madame's  artistic  touch  was  evident  in  all  she  did, 
the  social  as  well  as  the  professional. 

It  was  at  this  time,  in  the  midst  of  Greek  suppers, 
applause,  theatres,  operas,  and  infinite  portrait 
painting,  that  Madame  Le  Brun  went  to  Louve- 
ciennes.  There  could  not  have  been  brought  to- 
gether two  more  contrasting  women  than  madame 
the  artist  and  madame  the  courtesan,  —  the  one  of 
unaffected  prettiness  and  artless  grace,  knowing 
little  of  the  world  but  its  art,  innocent  and  sweet 
and  flowerlike,  a  girl  still ;  the  other  a  notorious 
beauty,  well  versed  in  all  the  wickedness  of  the 
world,  coquettish  and  full  of  wiles,  in  spite  of  her 
forty-five  years,  her  wrinkles,  and  her  approaching 
stoutness. 

Madame  Le  Brun  painted  Madame  du  Barry  in 
various  poses,  and  she  walked  with  her  in  her 
beautiful  pavilion  and  sat  with  her  in  her  beautiful 
salon  before  the  fire  and  listened  to  her  talk  of 


MADAME   LE    BRUN  AND    HER    DAUGHTER. 
From  the  painting  by  herself. 


MADAME  LE  BliUN.  185 

T^onis  XV.  and  his  court.  It  was  an  age  when  the 
innocent  mingled  freely  with  the  guilty.  This 
intercourse,  however,  did  not  harm  Madame  Le 
Brun.  Slie  worked  industriously,  and  smiled  to 
herself  in  an  amused,  satiric  sort  of  way  at  du 
Barry's  confidences.  And  when  she  left  Louve- 
ciennes,  she  carried  with  her  a  good  and  blithe  and 
bonny  heart  unchanged. 

Madame's  visit  to  Louveciennes  was  paid  on  the 
eve  of  the  Revolution.  When  that  lion-or  dawned, 
and  she  saw  a  landscape  Ijereft  of  all  beauty,  hid- 
eous and  stained  with  blood,  her  artist's  soul  was 
shaken.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  ran  away.  Of 
course  it  was  not  brave  of  her  to  do  this,  but  then 
Madame  Le  Brun  was  never  noticeably  brave.  She 
was  not  a  warrior  or  a  hero  or  anything  noble  and 
imposing.  She  was  just  an  artist  and  a  very 
womanly  woman.  Therefore  her  rapid  exit  was 
quite  in  character. 

She  did  not  stop  running  or  open  her  eyes,  so  to 
speak,  until  she  was  in  Italy.  There  the  skj^,  the 
sunshine,  the  mountains,  and  the  treasures  of  art 
which  she  visited  restored  beauty  to  her  sight  and 
brought  comfort  to  her  soul.  Later  the  shores  of 
the  blue  Danube  and  the  midnight  twilight  of  the 
Neva  attracted  her.  We  find  her  at  Sienna  seated 
in  the  doorway  of  an  inn,  contemplating  a  view  of 
garden  and  canal,  listening  to  a  concert  of  birds 
and  water-fall  and  rustling  trees,  forgetting,  mean- 
while, her  supper,   until  the  servant   of   the   inn 


186  MADAME  LE  BRUN. 

comes  to  remind  her  of  it.  And  at  Bologna  we  be- 
hold her  traversing  the  galleries  and  commenting 
on  the  pictures,  until  the  guide  stands  mute  before 
her  and  turns  to  inquire  of  the  bystanders,  "  Who 
is  this  lady?  I  have  led  many  great  princesses 
through  this  gallery,  but  never  any  one  so  well  in- 
formed as  she."  And  again  we  see  her  taking 
solitary  walks  in  the  environs  of  Rome,  admiring 
the  grandeur  of  the  Appennines  and  the  rainbow 
colors  in  the  sky.  Often  she  has  with  her  her 
daughter,  whose  childish  prattle  delights  her. 
When  the  trees  are  still,  the  little  voice  whispers, 
"Look,  mother,  they  seem  to  ask  us  to  be  silent." 
And  when  the  wind  agitates  them,  the  girl  clings, 
trembling,  to  the  mother's  skirts.  "  They  are 
alive,"  she  exclaims.  "  I  tell  thee  they  are  alive." 
Finally  we  follow  Madame  Le  Brun  to  England. 
There  the  dulness  of  English  country  life  falls  like 
a  chill  on  her  gay  French  spirits.  She  fidgets  in 
the  drawing-room  that  is  full  of  ladies  all  embroid- 
ering in  silence  and  of  gentlemen  all  reading  in 
silence.  She  proposes  a  moonlight  walk,  to  which 
objection  is  straightway  raised.  She  investigates 
the  library  and  the  picture-gallery.  An  exclama- 
tion of  delight,  which  unconsciously  escapes  her, 
draws  upon  her  looks  of  reproving  surprise.  She 
sighs.  This  atmosphere  of  studious  calm  is  not 
her  natural  element. 

Madame  Le  Brun  was  kept  busy  during  her  long 
sojourn.     She   painted   many  portraits.     And  she 


MADAME  LE   BR  UN.  187 

had  need  of  all  this  portrait  painting.  She  had 
come  away  with  only  a  few  francs,  having  left  all 
her  money  behind  her  in  France  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  her  extravagant  husband.  Unpractical 
and  childishly  unmercenary,  she  took  little  thought 
for  her  material  Avelfare.  It  did  not  trouble  her 
that  she  was  without  fortune  so  long  as  she  reserved 
always  her  talent  that  could  amass  one. 

She  did  care  for  comfort,  however.  Disagreeable 
noises  and  smells  distressed  her  very  much.  Yet, 
wherever  she  travelled,  an  annoying  fate  was  for- 
ever thrusting  them  in  her  way.  Now  a  dancing 
master  instructed  his  classes  over  her  head ;  or  a 
band  practised  its  music  there  ;  or  the  town  pump 
was  just  outside  her  window,  and  began  its  work  at  a 
provokingly  early  hour.  Her  neighbors  had  a  habit 
of  cooking  unsavory  dishes.  Sleep  left  her,  and 
her  nose  w^as  offended  repeatedly  .  The  climax  was 
reached  in  London  in  a  house  in  Portman  square. 
There  she  was  waked  at  daybreak  by  piercing  cries, 
which,  upon  rising  and  popping  her  head  out  the 
window,  she  traced  to  an  enormous  bird  of  East 
Indian  character  caged  in  a  window  near  by.  That 
same  day  she  found  in  her  cellar  the  graves  of  two 
slaves.  "  What  with  corpses  and  birds,"  she  pro- 
tested, "  it  was  really  too  much.  I  left  the  house 
in  Portman  square." 

Madame  Le  Brun  travelled  from  court  to  court, 
from  academy  to  academy,  from  Paris  to  Rome,  and 
Rome  to  St.  Petersburg.     Meanwhile  the  Revolu- 


188  MADAME  LE  BRUN. 

tion  advanced.  She  would  not  read  the  news- 
papers ;  she  would  not  let  any  one  talk  to  her  of 
her  unhappy  land.  Yet  she  thought  often  of  the 
queen  who  had  been  kind  to  her  and  the  king 
who  had  praised  her  art,  both  of  whom  she  loved 
and  lamented.  Through  all  their  vicissitudes,  her 
loyalty  to  the  Bourbons  never  faltered.  To  the 
day  of  her  death  she  remained  faithful  to  the  old 
regime  and  the  ancient  nobility. 

She  settled  in  St.  Petersburg,  having  with  her 
always  her  daughter  and  her  art,  a  twofold  happi- 
ness. She  was  to  lose  a  half  of  that  happiness. 
Her  daughter,  grown  into  a  very  pretty  young 
woman,  much  petted,  much  indulged,  took  a  fancy 
to  a  certain  Monsieur  Nigris,  a  man  without  talent, 
fortune,  or  famih%  whose  soft  ways  and  melan- 
choly glances  were  his  only  recommendation. 
Mademoiselle  cried  for  him,  as  in  her  childhood  she 
had  cried  for  some  pretty  toy,  and  Madame  Le 
Brun,  who  could  deny  her  nothing,  consented  to 
the  marriage  of  mademoiselle  with  this  gentleman 
of  her  choice.  It  was  madame's  good-bye  to  her 
daughter.  After  the  wedding  she  seldom  saw  her 
little  girl,  and  when  she  did  see  her,  the  child's 
taste  for  bad  company  distressed  the  mother's  heart. 
An  exchange  of  visits  brought  more  pain  than  joy. 
Later,  when  her  daughter  died,  Madame  Le  Brun's 
grief  was  very  great.  At  sight  of  the  dear,  lovely, 
altered  face  she  fainted.  All  the  naughtinesses  of 
the  poor  little  thing  were  blotted  out  of  her  mem- 


MADAME  LE   BRUN.  189 

ory,  she  said,  and  she  saw  her  as  in  the  days  of  her 
childhood. 

Her  daughter  married,  her  canvas  crowded  with 
all  the  sovereigns  of  Europe,  and  all  the  heads 
crowned  by  genius,  and  the  Revolution  at  an  end, 
Madame  Le  Brun  returned  to  Paris.  She  arrived 
during  the  consulate.  She  met  with  a  warm  wel- 
come. Her  husband  had  decorated  the  house  hand- 
somely to  receive  her.  The  trouble  had  been  his. 
Therefore  she  was  pleased  and  grateful.  That  the 
cost  would  certainly  be  hers  did  not  annoy  her 
greatly.  At  her  first  appearance  in  public,  at  a 
concert,  the  audience  turned  and  applauded  her. 
She  was  much  touched,  and  answered  with  tears. 
Her  old  friends,  those  who  remained,  called  upon 
her.  Greuze  and  Madame  Bonaparte  were  among 
her  visitors.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  again  in  France, 
which,  though  changed,  was  still  France,  social, 
polite,  and  light-hearted  as  of  old.  She  was  at 
home. 

Madame  Le  Brun  lived  on,  painting  portraits, 
entertaining  and  visiting  her  friends,  and  finding 
in  her  niece,  Eugenie  Le  Brun,  a  second  daughter. 
To  the  end  it  was  the  beautiful  she  sought,  the 
beautiful  she  found.  And  it  is  a  bit  of  the  beauti- 
ful that  she  has  contributed  to  the  world. 


MADAME   DE   STAEL. 


Born  at  Paris,  April  22,  I76fi 
Died  at  Paris,  July  24, 1817. 


"  A  woman  great  ami  magnanimous  even  in  the  inmost 
reaches  of  her  soul." —  Schlegel. 

"  I  WISH  that  I  could  see  you  asleep,"  one  of 
Madame  de  Stael's  friends  once  said  to  her.  "  I 
should  like  to  feel  sure  that  you  sometimes  close 
your  eyes  and  stop  thinking."  It  was  impossible 
to  imagine  her  any  way  but  wide-awake,  over- 
flowing with  thought  and  energy  and  life. 

Even  to-day  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  those 
dark,  "  magnificent "  eyes  have  closed  forever,  that 
the  great  de  Stael  is  sleeping  the  eternal  sleep. 
We  read  of  her  and  forget  realities,  as  we  fall 
under  the  spell  of  her  magnetic  personality.  She 
seems  still  to  be  holding  court  at  Coppet,  talking 
to  an  enchanted  audience,  wielding  her  sceptre,  the 
leafy  bough  that  a  servant  placed  every  day 
beside  her  plate.  We  listen  and  applaud  and 
render  homage  to  the  queen  of  conversation. 

A  rival  once  declared  of  Madame  de  Stael  that 
she  was  nothing  more  than  a  "  talking  machine." 
It  was  a  clever  phrase,  but  it  was  undeserved.  No 
one  was  ever  less  a  "  machine  "  than  Madame  de 

190 


MADAME    DE   STAEL. 
From  the  painting  by  Mile.  Godefroy. 


MADAME  DE   STAHL.  191 

Stael,  who  was  eminently  sensitive,  generous,  and 
fervid  among  women.  Her  mind  was  great,  but 
her  heart  was  greater,  and  her  genius  sprang 
equally  from  both. 

Madame  de  Stael's  genius  evinced  itself  at  an 
early  age.  She  was  an  erratic,  precocious,  unduly 
thoughtful  little  maiden.  Never  pretty  even  in 
childhood,  but  with  engaging  ways  and  a  remark- 
able originality  and  maturity  of  mind,  she 
attracted  the  attention  of  her  parents'  friends. 
Seated  on  a  low  hassock  at  Madame  Necker's 
feet,  she  may  be  truly  said  to  have  received  with 
her  mamma.  Marmontel,  Raynal,  Grimm,  the 
gravely  ir,)nical  Abbe  Morellet,  all  the  famous  per- 
sonages who  frequented  the  Necker  salon,  bent  to 
speak  to  the  strange,  old-young  child.  A  portion  of 
the  homage  they  had  awarded  unreservedly  to  the 
mother  they  now  bestowed  upon  the  daughter. 
They  delighted  to  draw  out  the  little  Gerinaine, 
for  so  she  was  called,  to  see  the  light  of  a  wonder- 
ful intelligence  break  in  her  eyes  and  to  listen  to 
her  quick,  pertinent,  and  wise  replies. 

For  the  mother  who  sat  above  her,  like  a  queen 
upon  her  throne,  receiving  the  compliments  of  her 
distinguished  guests,  the  daughter  entertained  a 
profound  awe.  In  that  beautiful,  pale,  severely 
gracious  presence  she  showed  herself  submissive 
and  restrained.  One  seeing  her  only  thus  would 
never  have  suspected  the  ardent,  impetuous,  pas- 
sionate nature  that  was  really  hers. 


192  MADAME  I)K   STAEL. 

Madame  Necker,  who  was  the  daughter  of  a 
Swiss  parson,  and  who  liad  inherited  the  paternal 
chastity  and  piety,  was  an  eminently  virtuous  lady. 
Moreover,  before  her  marriage  she  had  been  a 
school-mistress.  Therefore  the  most  rigorous  of 
moral  precepts  and  a  host  of  pedagogic  theories 
were  brought  to  bear  upon  her  little  daughter. 
Under  her  mother's  tutelage,  Germaine  read  and 
prayed,  studied  and  dissertated  and  convei-sed. 
The  result  was  that  at  the  age  of  eleven,  with  her 
amazing  powers  of  intellect,  she  had  developed 
into  a  very  erudite  and  accomplished,  but  a  most 
unchildlike,  individual. 

Meanwhile  papa  was  in  the  background.  He 
was  a  very  busy,  very  important  man,  the  Minister 
of  Finance  of  France.  He  had  very  little  time  to 
devote  to  his  young  daughter.  He  was  more 
indulgent  than  mamma,  however.  During  those 
infrequent  moments  when  father  and  daughter 
were  together,  Germaine  did  not  stand  in  awe  of 
him.  She  dared  to  frisk  before  him,  to  play  the 
child,  to  show  him  how  very  lively  and  amusing 
she  could  be.  Necker  seldom  reprimanded  her. 
Instead  he  laughed  at  her,  and  petted  and  caressed 
her. 

Germaine,  with  her  alert  perception,  was 
quick  to  note  the  difference  between  her  father's 
and  her  mother's  attitudes  towards  herself.  She 
was  as  quick  to  appreciate  the  meaning  of  tliis 
difference.     One  day,  when  she  had  offended  and 


MADAME  BE  STAiSL.  198 

had  been  sternly  reproved  by  her  mamma  therefor, 
she  could  not  repress  her  tears.  Some  one  of  the 
many  frequenters  of  the  Necker  salon  drew  near 
and  sought  to  comfort  her.  "Never  mind,"  he 
whispered  consolingly,  "  one  kiss  from  your  papa 
will  make  it  all  right  again."  Germaine  regarded 
her  friend  gravely  through  her  tears  and,  with  a 
world  of  wisdom  in  her  look,  she  answered,  "Ah, 
yes,  monsieur,  papa  thinks  of  my  present  happiness, 
mamma  of  my  future." 

The  contemplation  of  that  goal  of  future  happi" 
ness  to  which  Madame  Necker  so  pereistently 
pointed  must  have  wearied  somewhat  Germaine's 
mischief-loving  spirit.  Though  she  was  for  the 
most  part  a  very  reverential  and  obedient  daughter, 
there  were  occasional  faint  flashes  of  self  assertion, 
brief  glimpses  of  a  gaiety,  a  frankness,  a  naivete 
as  irrepressible  as  her  life.  Now  it  happened  that 
a  company  of  play  actore,  paper  kings  and  queens, 
drew  her  attention  from  her  studies.  Mamma 
frowned.  The  kings  and  queens  were  removed 
from  mamma's  scrutiny,  and  the  play  continued  to 
the  end.  Again  it  happened  that  a  guest  passing 
through  the  Necker  garden  on  his  way  to  the 
house,  felt  a  light,  stinging  blow  on  liis  hand. 
Turning  to  resent  the  assault,  he  beheld  the 
assaulter,  the  little  daughter  of  the  house,  peering 
at  him  roguishly  from  behind  a  tree.  "  Mamma 
wishes  me  to  learn  to  use  my  left  hand,"  she 
explained.     "  You   see   I    am   trying   to   do    so." 


194  21  AD  AM  E  BE  ST  A  EL. 

Aud  again,  most  significant  of  all,  it  happened 
that  once  at  table  in  the  temporary  absence  of  her 
mother,  Germaine  threw  a  napkin  across  the  table 
at  her  papa  and  then,  flying  round  to  his  side, 
smothered  his  reproaches  with  her  kisses.  More 
than  that,  she  drew  the  dignified  Necker  into  a 
dance  with  her,  a  dance  which  ended  abruptly 
at  sound  of  madame's  returning  footsteps.  When 
that  august  lady  entered,  father  and  daughter 
had  resumed  their  places,  and  nothing  could 
have  been  more  decorous  than  their  behavior. 

In  these  instances  Germaine  revealed  herself. 
In  spite  of  all  the  pedantry  with  which  her  youth 
was  crammed,  she  was  still  at  heart  natural, 
rudely  yet  beautifully  natural.  However,  these 
instances  were  exceptional.  Most  of  the  time 
she  showed  her  training.  She  was  a  product  of 
the  salon.  The  tinsel  of  society  was  upon  her 
and  the  little  vanities  and  artificialities  of  the 
world  were  manifest  in  all  her  conduct. 

With  her  prodigious  learning  and  remarkable 
savoir  faire,  she  quite  amazed  little  Mademoiselle 
Hiiber,  her  cousin,  a  child  of  her  own  age,  who 
came  to  live  with  her  and  to  be  her  companion. 
Germaine,  unused  to  children,  fell  instantly  in 
love  with  the  pretty,  dainty,  aerial  little  made- 
moiselle. We  can  imagine  the  eloquence  of  the 
glances,  the  ardor  of  the  embraces,  with  which 
she  greeted  her  new  found  friend  and  vowed 
"  eternally    to    cherish "    hei-.      Impetuously     she 


MADAME   T)E   ST  A  EL.  195 

began  plying  bcr  Avitli  questions,  not  after  the 
manner  of  children,  but  in  very  convereational 
and  grown-up  fashion.  What  were  her  favorite 
studies  ?  Did  she  know  any  foreign  languages  ? 
I  hid  she  ever  been  to  the  theatre?  And  when 
to  the  latter  question  her  cousin  answered  that 
she  had,  Germaine,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
was  "transported."  They  would  go  often  to- 
gether, she  declared,  and  afterwards  would  write 
down  all  those  portions  of  the  play  which  had 
interested  them  most.  Oh,  they  would  have 
a  royal  time. 

In  the  evening  of  that  first  day  of  their  ac- 
quaintance. Mademoiselle  Hiiber  went  with  Ger- 
maine into  the  salon,.  She  was  herself  a  bright, 
observant  child.  She  noted  with  admiring  awe 
Germaine's  ease  and  grace  with  the  distinguished 
guests.  She  saw  that  it  was  the  cleverest  men 
who  talked  with  Germaine.  "  They  asked  what  she 
was  reading,"  Mademoiselle  Hiiber  afterwards  re- 
lated, "  recommended  new  books  to  her,  and 
talked  to  her  of  what  she  knew,  and  of  what  she 
had  yet  to  learn." 

Thus  even  so  soon,  at  this  period  of  Mademoiselle 
Iliiber's  advent,  Germaine  Necker  was  giving 
proof  of  her  extraordinary  powers.  Intimations 
of  her  future  greatness  showed  in  her  conver- 
sation and  in  the  animation  of  her  "great  black 
eyes."  It  also  expressed  itself  in  an  intense 
sensibility.     This  sensibility  was  such  tliat  praise 


19G  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

of  her  parents  brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  The 
presence  of  famous  personages,  lieroes  and  heroines 
of  her  young  fancy,  set  her  heart  to  palpitating. 
Like  Manon  Phlipon,  she  was  a  disciple  of 
Rousseau,  passionate  in  her  enthusiasm  for  talent 
and  virtue,  and  in  her  compassion  for  all  suffer- 
ing humanity.  She  liked  to  read  of  the  Werthers, 
the  Julies  and  the  Clarisse  Harlowes  of  literature. 
She  cared  only  for  that  which  made  her  weep. 

The  truth  was  she  was  paying  the  penalty  of 
her  prematurely  developed  mind.  The  excessive 
training  to  which  she  had  been  subjected  by  her 
mother  was  beginning  to  tell  on  her  health. 
Tronchin  was  called  in.  He  prescribed  absolute 
rest  from  study,  fresh  air,  and  exercise.  Thus 
cruelly  did  he  shatter  Madame  Necker's  ambitions 
and  projects  ;  for,  such  was  the  authority  of  the 
celebrated  physician,  that  she  did  not  venture 
to  raise  an  objection.  Straightway  and  with- 
out cavil,  Germaine  was  transported  to  Saint 
Ouen. 

At  Saint  Ouen,  the  beautiful  country  seat  of  the 
Neckers,  wandering  in  its  shady  avenues,  reclining 
in  its  peaceful  groves,  and  acting  with  her  beloved 
cousin,  Madamoiselle  Hiiber,  improvised  tragedies 
upon  the  lawns,  with  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  her- 
self, Germaine  regained  her  health  and  innate 
gaiety  of  spirit.  Those  instances  of  laughing,  frolick- 
ing nature  which  had  always  been  so  rare  with 
her  became  more  frequent.     She  ceased  to  be  an 


MADAME  1)K   ST  A  PI  L.  197 

infant  phenomenon  and  was  instead  a  child. 
Madame  Necker  found  her  very  commonplace,  and 
turned  coldly  from  her.  But  her  changed  condi- 
tion delighted  her  papa.  Ho  sought  her  company 
and  in  her  sallies  of  wit  and  playful  humors  found 
recreation. 

Estranofed  from  her  mother  and  drawn  nearer 
and  nearer  to  her  father,  Germaine  reserved  her 
awe  for  the  one  and  gave  to  the  other  a  profound 
and  adoring  love.  It  is  pleasant  to  contemplate 
in  a  brilliant  life,  such  as  that  of  Germaine  Necker 
was  destined  to  be,  a  love  so  pure  and  abiding  as 
hers  for  her  father.  One  sees  in  it  a  counterpart 
of  Madame  de  Sevign^'s  for  her  daughter.  Like 
the  love  of  the  witty  marquise,  it  amounted  to  a 
passion.  It  filled  her  life.  She  listened  to  Necker's 
tales  of  his  boyhood,  pictured  him  young,  ardent, 
and  ambitious,  and  lamented  that  fate  had  not 
made  them  contemporaries  and  united  her  destiny 
eternally  with  his. 

When  Germaine  was  fifteen  years  of  age,  Necker 
published  his  "  Compte  Rendu  "  and  consequently 
fell  from  power.  He  retired  to  Saint  Ouen  and 
there  a  host  of  sympathetic  and  admiring  friends 
visited  Mm  and  his  family.  From  now  on  until 
the  time  of  her  marriage,  a  period  of  five  years, 
Germaine  enjoyed  uninterruptedly  the  companion- 
ship of  her  parents  and  lived  with  them,  in  spite 
of  their  so-called  "disgrace,"  a  triumphant  and 
highly  intellectual  life. 


198  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

Of  course,  with  her  natural  propensity  for  emotion, 
she  early  conceived  a  romantic  attachment  for  one 
of  the  many  who  came  to  her  home,  a  very  con- 
spicuous personage,  the  Monsieur  Guibert  later 
distinguished  by  the  love  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Lespinasse.  This  gentleman,  with  his  engaging 
ways,  captivated  her  as  he  had  captivated  other 
less  impressionable  maidens  and,  what  is  perhaps 
more  agreeable  to  contemplate,  he  entertained  at 
least  a  passing  fancy  for  Necker's  brilliant  daughter. 
He  wrote  a  ^  portrait  "  of  her,  in  which  he  described 
her  as  a  priestess  of  Apollo  with  dark,  luminous  eyes 
and  black,  floating  curls  and  features  that  marked 
her  for  a  superior  destmy. 

This  portrait  of  Mademoiselle  Necker  by  Mon- 
sieur Guibert  was  one  of  many  read  in  the  Necker 
salon.  To  the  many  Mademoiselle  Necker  con- 
tributed her  share.  And  these  portraits,  executed 
by  her  with  a  frank  exaggeration  which  was  not 
without  its  charm,  were  not  the  only  products  of 
her  pen.  At  the  time  of  Necker's  fall  from  power, 
when  she  was  only  fifteen  yeai-s  of  age  it  should  be 
remembered,  she  wrote  her  father  an  anonymous 
letter.  This  letter  showed  a  perfect  understand- 
ing of  his  position.  Its  style  betrayed  her.  More- 
over, as  she  advanced  in  her  teens,  she  wrote 
ambitious  tragedies  and  novelettes.  She  quite 
shocked  her  somewhat  Calvinistic  mamma  with  a 
play  called  "  Sophie,"  which  had  for  its  subject  the 
struggles  of  a  young  girl  against  her  love  for  her 
guardian,  a  married  man. 


AfADAME  DE   ST  A  EL.  199 

Her  writing  was  done  out  of  sight  of  her  teasing 
papa.  Necker  exceedingly  disliked  authorship  in 
a  woman.  He  sought  to  dissuade  his  daughter 
from  the  pursuit  of  letters.  He  nicknamed  lier 
Mademoiselle  de  Saintc  Ecritoire.  But  all  liis 
badinage  could  not  suppress  her  literary  effusions. 
These  were  tlie  natural  exhalations  of  her  soul. 

As  time  went  on,  however,  and  Germaine's 
tw^entieth  birthday  approached,  her  authorship  was 
temporarily  abandoned  and  forgotten.  The  question 
of  her  marriage  arose  and  engrossed,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else,  the  attention  of  the  Necker  family. 

Formerl}',  while  she  was  still  a  child,  simple  and 
naive  in  spite  of  pedantry,  Germaine  had  given  her 
consideration  to  this  question  of  her  marriage.  She 
had  observed  the  great  respect  in  which  Gibbon, 
the  famous  English  historian,  was  held  by  her 
parents,  the  pleasure  which  his  conversation  af- 
forded them.  She  herself,  it  must  be  confessed, 
found  him  very  corpulent  and  ugly  and  not  at  all 
to  her  taste.  However,  she  waived  all  pei'sonal 
considerations,  and  very  seriously,  and  in  a  spirit 
of  duty  and  infinite  love,  proposed  to  her  father 
and  mother  that  she  would  marry  their  much 
revered  friend.  "  We  would  live  with  you,  of 
course,  and  you  could  hear  Monsieur  Gibbon  talk 
forever  and  ever."  We  can  imagine  her  express- 
ing herself  thus  quaintly  and  in  all  sincerity. 
Needless  to  say,  the  sacrifice  Avas  not  demanded  of 
her.     With  the  sanction  of  Monsieur  and  Madame 


200  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

Necker,  Gibbon  remained  a  bachelor,  and  Ger- 
maine  was  reserved  for  fate  in  another  shape  than 
that  of  the  ahnost  spherical  English  historian. 

The  large  fortune  of  Mademoiselle  Necker,  even 
more  than  her  brilliant  mind  it  is  to  be  feared,  at- 
tracted man}-  suitors.  Conspicuous  among  them 
were  Prince  George  Augustus  of  Mechlenburg, 
brother  of  the  reigning  duke,  William  Pitt  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  Baron  de  Stael  Holstein.  Of  these 
the  Prince  was  so  impudent  as  to  declare  that  he 
desired  the  lady  only  on  account  of  her  enormous 
dower.  His  proposals  were  therefore  rejected  by 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Necker  with  a  becoming 
promptitude.  Madame  Necker  favored  the  claims 
of  Pitt.  Her  discerning  mind  appreciated  his  char- 
acter and  ability  and  interpreted  them,  no  doubt, 
as  marks  of  future  greatness.  She  praised  him 
to  Germaine,  and  was  displeased  when  that  young 
lady  turned  a  deaf  ear.  It  was  not  the  English- 
man, but  the  Swedish  baron  whom  Germaine  pre- 
ferred. 

The  reason  of  her  choice  was  to  be  found  in  her 
love  for  her  father.  She  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  leaving  France  and  him  for  any  hus- 
band. De  Stael's  virtue  in  her  eyes,  therefore,  was 
his  French  residence. 

Finding  favor  in  the  young  lady's  sight,  the 
baron  was  encouraged  to  press  his  suit  ardently. 
He  had  much  in  his  favor.  He  was  a  favorite  at 
court,  a  liberal  like  Necker,  and,  also,  like  Necker, 


MADAME  DE   STAKL.  201 

a  Protestant.  Moreover,  he  had  recently  been 
appointed  Swedish  ambassador  at  the  Court  of 
France  and,  in  view  of  the  marriage,  it  had  been 
arranged  with  his  king,  Gustavus,  that  he  was  to 
remain  in  that  capacity  for  an  indefinitely  long  term 
of  years.  Necker  received  him  graciously,  ma- 
dame,  who  remembered  Pitt,  a  little  coldly.  At 
length,  after  due  consideration  and  negotiation,  he 
was  accepted.  The  marriage  settlement  was  drawn 
up  and  signed  by  the  king  and  queen  and  numer- 
ous other  important  personages,  and  on  the  four- 
teenth of  January,  1786,  the  wedding,  a  very  im- 
posing one,  took  place. 

It  was  by  no  means  a  marriage  of  love.  The 
groom  was  thirty-seven,  and  interested  in  obtaining 
a  fine  fortune.  The  bride  was  twenty,  in  love  with 
her  father,  and  desirous  of  remaining  always  in  his 
neighborhood.  On  both  sides  there  was  a  friendli- 
ness, but  nothing  of  a  deep  or  enduring  character. 
Indeed,  the  affair  was  quite  manifestly  one  of  con- 
venience. 

On  the  last  night  that  she  spent  under  her 
father's  roof,  Germaine  was  very  serious.  She 
thought  of  the  future.  But  more  than  that  she 
thought  of  the  past.  It  seemed  to  her  that  in  that 
moment,  "  as  in  that  of  death,"  all  her  deeds  re- 
turned to  her.  She  was  possessed  with  a  sadness, 
a  regret,  a  desire  to  make  right,  in  so  far  as  she  was 
able,  all  her  past  errors  and  failings.  And  quite 
naturally,  in  that  "  moment "  of  self-judgment,  it 


202  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

was  not  to  her  father,  between  whom  and  herself 
there  had  never  been  a  coolness,  but  to  her  mother 
that  she  addressed  herself.  She  wrote  a  farewell 
letter  to  Madame  Necker,  wistfully  breathing  a 
hope  that  she  might  be  missed,  generously  blaming 
herself  for  all  past  dissensions,  and  warmly  express- 
ing the  tenderness  which  she  "  felt  for  her  mother, 
and  which  at  that  moment  was  so  deep,"  she  said, 
"as  to  convince  her  that  it  had  always  been  the 
same."  Thus  in  a  spirit  of  sweet  humility,  asking 
pardon  for  her  faults,  with  a  backward  glance  of 
love  for  all  that  she  was  leaving,  Germaine  went 
out  from  her  father's  home. 

A  brilliant  and  eventful  life  awaited  her.  Im- 
mediately she  was  presented  at  court  and  attracted 
much  attention  there.  The  ultra-conventional 
criticised  her.  They  said,  with  a  smile  of  worldly 
wisdom  and  superiority,  that  she  was  very  "sim- 
ple "  and  that  her  self-assurance  was  certainly 
"  amusing ; "  and  when  she  tore  her  gown  and 
omitted  the  third  courtesy,  they  viewed  her  with 
glances  of  horror ;  in  their  eyes  she  could  not  have 
committed  a  more  grievous  offence.  The  young 
madame,  herself,  however,  only  laughed.  She 
could  exist  without  the  patronage  of  the  ultra-con- 
ventional. All  the  thinking  people  of  France  were 
gathering  round  her  in  an  admiring  circle.  She  was 
content  in  their  society  and  did  not  miss  the  others. 

Shortly  after  Madame  de  Stael's  marriage,  her 
father  was  recalled  to  powe:-.     She  herself,  as  soon 


MADAME  BE  STAEL.  203 

as  she  heard  the  news,  in  a  jubihiiit  frame  of  luiiid, 
hastened  to  Saint  Oiien.  To  her  congratulations 
her  fatiier  responded  sadly.  "  It  is  too  late,"  he 
said.  Madame  Necker,  too,  shook  her  head.  To 
her,  as  to  her  husband,  it  seemed  that  the  outlook 
of  France  and  his  part  therein  were  hopeless.  But 
Madame  de  Stael  would  not  listen  to  their  fore- 
bodings. She  was  inspired  with  youthful  ardor 
and  unbounded  confidence  in  her  father.  "  Every 
day,"  she  declared,  warmly,  "'  he  will  do  something 
good  and  prevent  something  bad." 

As  the  daughter  of  a  minister  and  the  wife  of 
an  ambassador,  Madame  de  Stael's  position  had 
now  become  one  of  influence.  Many  distinguished 
men  met  in  her  parlors.  Her  house,  indeed,  was  a 
rallying  point  not  only  for  men  like  her  father, 
who  were  monarchical  and  desired  a  constitution 
on  the  English  model,  but  also  for  the  more  liberal 
politicians,  such  men  as  La  Fayette,  de  Montmo- 
rency, and  Narbonne,  the  constitutional  royalists, 
who  in  '91  formed  themselves  into  a  powerful 
party. 

With  these  men  and  with  the  intelligent  portion 
of  Parisian  society  in  general,  Madame  de  StaeFs 
talents,  equally  with  her  wealth  and  position,  gave 
her  distinction.  While  every  one  was  discussing 
politics  and  idealizing  about  the  glorious  future  of 
humanity,  she  discussed  and  idealized  so  wisely 
and  eloquently  that  she  was  soon  installed  the 
presiding  genius  in  all  such  conversations.     More- 


204  3IADAME  BE  STAEL. 

over,  her  first  publication,  her  ''•  Letters  on  Jeaji 
Jacques,"  were  being  read  and  creating  a  sensation. 
Grimm  described  them  as  "  a  charming  work  "  and 
eulogized  them  and  their  j^outhful  author. 

Madame  de  Stael's  "  Letters  on  Jean  Jacques  " 
disclosed  for  the  first  time  the  remarkable  reaches 
of  her  mind  and  soul.  They  revealed  vistas  of 
thought  which  in  her  later  works  appeared  devel- 
oped and  matured.  Reading  these  letters,  one 
beholds  their  author  wandering  in  Elysian  fields, 
following  reverentially  in  the  footsteps  of  Rousseau, 
yet  drawn  now  and  then  from  the  path  of  his 
choosing,  by  her  own  audacious  fancy,  into  new 
and  untried  ways.  The  letters  are  a  paean  of 
praise  to  him,  her  "  literary  parent."  But  through 
them  there  sounds,  clear  and  strong,  her  own 
"  motif."  Now  it  peals  forth  with  all  the  lightness 
and  ardor  and  hopefulness  of  youth.  At  this 
period  of  her  existence  there  was,  as  she  herself 
phrased  it,  "something  of  the  Scotch  air  in  the 
music  of  her  life."  The  motif  was  rippling  in  the 
treble  key.  As  yet  it  only  suggested  and  had  not 
developed  those  sombre  chords  "  intense  and  sor- 
rowful "  which  made  the  music  of  her  later  life. 

The  time  was  at  hand,  however,  when  the  fierce 
thunder  of  the  Revolution  was  to  drown  the 
music  of  her  life,  when  in  anguish  she  was  to 
reproach  herself  "  even  for  thought,  as  something 
too  independent  of  grief."  The  Scotch  air  died  in 
her  heart  for  the   first  time  when  fate  aimed  its 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  205 

blow  at  her  father.  She  was  present  at  that  dinner 
at  which  Necker  received  his  communication  from 
the  king  ordering  him  to  leave  France  immediately 
and  to  depart  in  secrecy.  She  witnessed  his  read- 
ing of  the  letter  in  silence  and  calm,  and  did  not 
suspect  its  contents.  Dinner  at  an  end,  she  saw 
her  father  and  mother  take  leave  of  the  company 
and  drive  off  in  their  carriage  and  supposed,  as  did 
every  one  else,  that  they  were  bound  on  a  pleasure 
trip. 

Her  indignation  and  sorrow,  when  the  truth 
became  known  to  her,  may  be  imagined.  Straight- 
way, accompanied  by  her  husband,  she  hastened  to 
overtake  her  parents,  and  came  up  with  them  at 
Brussels.  Therefore  she  was  able  to  make  with 
them  the  triumphant  return.  Her  father,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  demand  of  the  populace,  was  re- 
called. The  people  who  loved  him,  because  to 
him  they  were  indebted  for  the  double  representa- 
tion of  the  Third  Estate,  had  prepared  for  him  a 
glorious  reception.  The  way  back  to  Paris  was 
strewn  with  roses.  A  jubilant  crowd  met  him  at 
the  gates  of  every  town  and  substituted  themselves 
for  horses  and  postilions.  Everywhere  he  was 
greeted  with  shouts  of  "-  Vive  Necker !  Vive 
Necker !  "  Madame  de  Stael,  looking  into  the  en- 
thusiastic faces  of  the  people,  lived  the  proudest 
and  happiest  moment  of  her  life.  At  no  other 
time  did  the  Scotch  air  sing  itself  so  joyously  in 
lier  heart. 


206  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

A  few  months  more  and  she  was  to  see  those 
same  faces,  which  now  expressed  love,  expressing 
instead  hate.  She  was  to  hear  the  cries  of  "  Vive 
Necker"  changed  to  curses  and  false  accusations. 
She  was  to  learn  how  fleeting  a  thing  is  the  favor 
of  the  multitude.  Because  Necker  was  sympathe- 
tic in  too  many  directions,  because  he  was  sorry  for 
a  tottering  king  and  queen,  nobility  and  clergy,  as 
well  as  for  a  down-trodden  people,  because  he 
opposed  certain  popular  measures  and  stood  a  little 
in  the  way  of  the  popular  ascendancy,  he  was  dis- 
regarded and  thrust  aside.  He  tendered  his  resig- 
nation and  it  was  received  without  protest  or  regret. 
In  a  spirit  of  Quixotic  magnanimity,  he  deposited 
two  millions  of  his  own  property  in  the  royal 
treasury  and  silently  took  his  leave.  His  escape 
to  Switzerland  was  through  a  growling,  snarling 
mob.  He  was  hounded  to  the  very  gates  of  his 
country.  It  appeared  that  France  had  forgotten 
his  many  faithful  services  and  chose  to  consider 
him  a  traitorous  stranger. 

Madame  de  Stael  soon  followed  her  father  to  his 
Swiss  retreat.  She  knew  now  that  he  had  spoken 
truly  when  he  said,  "  It  is  too  late."  Her  young, 
bright,  hopeful  illusion  had  vanished.  She  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  tragedy  of  his  failure  and  of  her 
country's  danger.  We  can  picture  her  seated  by  her 
father's  side  or  walking  with  him  along  the  margin 
of  the  beautiful  lake,  seeking  with  consoling  words 
to  cheer  liim,  yet  oppressed  all  the  while   with   a 


MADAME  ])K  STASL.  207 

sadness  like  his  own  and  apprehensions  for  their 
countiy's  safety. 

Having  made  this  visit  of  condolence  to  her 
father,  Madame  de  Stael  returned  to  Paris.  She 
regarded  that  city  as  an  arena  for  a  struggle  in 
which  her  services  might  be  needed.  As  of  old, 
the  constitutional  royalists  rallied  in  her  salon. 
Conspicuous  among  them  was  Narbonne,  young, 
brilliant,  charming.  Madame  was  his  friend, 
warmly,  devotedly  his  friend.  Some  whispered 
that  she  loved  him  too  dearly.  Yet  so  simple,  so 
frank,  so  open,  so  devoid  of  all  art  and  coquetry 
was  madame's  love  for  this  gentleman  that  in  its 
presence  slander  halted,  uncertain  and  abashed, 
and  posterity  is  left  in  doubt.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  Madame  de  Stael,  Narbonne  was  ap- 
pointed in  December  of  '91  Minister  of  War. 
He  did  not  hold  the  office  long.  In  a  few  months 
he  was  dismissed  by  his  king  and  sent  to  serve  for 
a  while  in  the  war  on  the  frontier. 

As  the  Revolution  advanced  and  the  Reign  of 
Terror  drew  near,  while  proscriptions  were  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  on  all  sides  royalists  and  con- 
stitutionalists were  perishing  or  fleeing,  Madame 
de  Stael,  safe  in  her  character  of  ambassadress,  re- 
mained at  Paris,  ever  watchful,  active,  and  coura- 
geous in  the  cause  of  friendship.  When  at  length 
the  Baron  de  Stael  was  recalled  by  his  government 
and  the  Tuileries  were  invaded,  Necker  wrote  urg- 
ing hk  daughter  to  join  him.     But  Madame    de 


208  MADAME  DE  STA&L. 

Stael  would  not  leave  so  long  as  it  was  possible 
that  by  staying  she  might  rescue  a  friend. 

Now  it  was  in  the  interests  of  Narbonne  that  she 
lingered.  The  terrible  tenth  of  August  had  passed 
and  other  days  equally  terrible  had  succeeded. 
Narbonne  was  among  the  j)i"Oscribed.  Knowing 
this,  Madame  de  Stael  sought  him  through  the 
bloody  city,  found  him  in  his  place  of  hiding, 
brought  him  to  her  house,  and  concealed  him  there. 
When  the  police  agents  came  demanding  Monsieur 
de  Narbonne,  Madame  de  Stael  was  ready  for  them. 
She  took  advantage  of  their  ignorance,  demanding 
of  them  if  they  realized  that  they  were  violating 
their  rights  in  invading  the  house  of  an  ambas- 
sadress (she  took  pains  not  to  tell  them  that  her 
husband  had  been  recently  recalled)  and  warned 
them  that  unless  they  desisted,  Sweden,  which  was 
dangerously  near,  would  descend  upon  France. 
Having  first  frightened  them,  Madame  de  Stael 
next  proceeded  to  pleasantries.  She  was  very 
witty  and  charming.  Before  the  police  agents 
knew  what  was  happening,  they  were  being  bowed 
gracefully  out  of  the  house.  Four  days  later, 
Madame  de  Stael  procured  a  false  passport  and  by 
means  of  it  Monsieur  de  Narbonne  was  enabled  to 
escape  to  England. 

Again  it  was  to  save  Lally  ToUendal  and  Jan- 
court  that  she  delayed.  Jancourt,  a  former  mem- 
ber of  the  Legislative  Assembly,  and  Lally  Tollendal 
had  been  sent  to  the  Abbaye,  which  was  only  too 


MADAME  I)E  STAEL.  209 

aptly  termed  "  the  ante-chamber  of  death."  To 
many  their  doom  seemed  certain.  Not  so,  however, 
to  INIadame  de  Stael,  the  cheerful,  the  determined, 
the  indefatigable.  She  hastily  ran  over  in  her  mind 
the  names  of  the  members  of  the  Commune  who 
sat  in  judgment  on  her  friends,  and  bethought  her 
of  one  Manuel,  a  man  of  literary  pretensions,  who 
she  believed  might  be  susceptible  to  flattery.  At 
the  democratic  hour  of  seven  in  the  morning  she 
made  an  appointment  with  him  and  called  upon 
him  at  his  house.  She  appealed  first  to  his 
vanity,  then  to  his  humanity.  She  spoke  of  the 
terrible  times,  of  the  uncertainty  of  all  lives. 
"  Think,"  she  said,  ''  in  six  months  you  may  no 
longer  have  power>  Save  Lally  and  Jancourt. 
Reserve  for  yourself  a  sweet  and  consoling  recol- 
lection when  you  may  be  proscribed."  Her  elo- 
quence conquered.  The  next  day  she  received  a 
letter  from  Manuel  informing  her  that  Condorcet 
had  obtained  the  liberation  of  Lally,  and  that  he 
himself  had  released  Jancourt  in  answer  to  her 
entreaties. 

At  length,  having  done  all  that  she  could  for 
her  friends,  Madame  de  Stael  decided  to  leave 
France.  True,  even  at  this  final  moment,  to  her 
life-preserving  character,  she  planned  to  take  with 
her  the  Abbe  de  Montesquion  in  the  disguise  of 
a  domestic.  He  was  given  the  passport  of  one 
of  her  servants  and  was  to  meet  her  at  an  appointed 
rendezvous. 


210  MADAME  DE  STASL. 

The  rendezvous  was  never  reached,  however, 
and  the  scheme  failed  in  most  alarming  fashion. 
Madame  de  Stael's  carriage  had  proceeded  only  a 
short  distance  on  its  outward-bound  journey  when 
it  was  surrounded  by  an  angry  mob  and  stopped. 
Madame  was  accused  of  seeking  to  take  away  pro- 
scribed royalists  and  was  ordered  to  proceed  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  under  the  command  of  a  gendarme. 
Her  carriage  was  straightway  turned  about  and  led, 
long  and  wearily,  at  a  foot  pace,  through  the 
crowd,  amid  cries  of  "  Death." 

Up  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  on  which 
same  steps  only  the  day  following  the  Princess  de 
Lamballe  perished,  between  a  double  row  of  pikes, 
Madame  de  Stael  mounted.  She  v/as  conducted 
into  the  presence  of  Robespierre  and  a  host  of  j)as- 
sionate  people  all  shouting  "  Vive  la  Nation." 
Before  this  audience  she  immediately  proceeded, 
forcibly  and  eloquently  as  was  her  way,  to  plead 
her  right  to  depart  as  an  ambassadress. 

She  might  have  spoken  to  deaf  ears,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  opportune  appearance  of  Manuel. 
He  gave  his  word  to  the  people  that  he  would  be 
responsible  for  her  until  the  Commune  should 
decide  her  fate,  and  escorted  her  and  her  maid  to 
his  own  house.  There,  in  the  same  room  in  which 
she  had  entreated  for  Lally  and  Jancourt,  she  re- 
mained for  six  hours  "dying,"  as  she  herself 
expressed  it,  "  of  hunger,  thirst,  and  fear."  In 
the  evening  Manuel,  himself  pale  with  horror  at 


MADAME   DE   ST  A  JUL.  21] 

the  scenes  which  he  had  that  day  witnessed,  came 
to  her.  He  told  her  that  he  had  obtained  a  pass- 
port for  herself  and  one  maid ;  and  that  she  was 
to  leave  Paris  the  next  morning  under  the  escort 
of  a  gendarme. 

The  next  morning  several  suspected  aristocrats 
came  to  say  good-bye  to  Madame  de  Stael.  She  did 
not  send  them  away.  She  received  them  warml}^, 
kissing  them,  even,  we  may  imagine,  under  the 
eyes  of  the  gendarme,  imploring  him  tremulously 
meanwhile  to  be  '^discreet."  Thus,  mindful  of 
her  friends  to  the  very  last  and  sick  at  heart, 
Madame  de  Stael  took  her  departure. 

She  went  directly  to  Switzerland,  to  Coppet,  to 
her  father  and  mother.  There  nature,  beautiful 
and  vast,  awaited  her.  But  nature  did  not  comfort 
her.  Rather  it  surprised  and  hurt  her.  She 
mourned  over  the  sorrows  of  her  friends  and  her 
mutilated  country  even  in  the  presence  of  Mount 
Blanc  and  Lake  Leman.  She  reproached  the 
mountains  for  their  undisturbed  and  lofty  gran- 
deur, the  lake  for  its  bright,  careless  calm.  Her 
soul  cried  then,  as  later  her  pen  wrote  :  "  Oh,  earth ! 
steeped  in  tears  and  blood,  thou  bringest  forth 
thy  fruits  and  flowers  unceasingly  !  Hast  thou, 
then,  no  pity  for  man  and  can  his  dust  return  into 
thy  maternal  bosom  without  causing  it  to  bound  ?  " 

With  the  birds  singing  about  her,  she  heard  only 
from  afar  the  strokes  of  the  guillotine  and  each 
blow  struck  her  heart.     And  with  all  of  fair  Swit- 


212  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

zerland  before  her  to  attract  her  gaze,  she  looked 
behind  sadly,  pitifully,  at  poor,  disfigured  France. 
She  loved  the  victims  who  were  falling  there.  She 
was  in  turn  a  sister,  a  brother,  a  wife,  a  daughter, 
a  son,  a  father,  and  most  of  all,  she  was  a  mother 
—  so  tender,  so  protecting  was  her  love  for  all  that 
suffering  humanity. 

Her  efforts  were  directed  toward  giving  such 
relief  as  she  was  able.  Coppet  became  an  asylum 
for  proscribed  emigres.  Thither  came  Mathieu 
de  Montmorency,  Jancourt,  the  Princess  de  Poix, 
and  Madame  de  Simiane.  Madame  de  Stael  con- 
stantly was  engaged  devising  plans  that  would 
enable  proscribed  persons  to  escape  from  France. 
She  procured  for  them  Swiss  passports  in  which 
they  were  given  Swiss  names.  She  sent  her 
agents  to  them,  and  these,  infused  with  something 
of  her  own  enthusiasm  and  heroism,  conducted  the 
proscribed,  first  one,  then  another,  away  from  the 
noisy,  bloody  arena  of  Paris,  across  the  snowcapped 
Juras,  to  the  waiting  silence  of  Coppet.  She 
opened  her  doors  to  friends  and  foes  alike.  In 
times  of  need  her  generous  heart  knew  no  distinc- 
tions. 

Once  it  was  for  a  nephew  of  Jancourt,  Achille 
du  Chayla,  that  she  labored.  The  young  man  had 
been  arrested  at  a  town  on  the  frontier  of  Switzer- 
land under  the  suspicion  that  the  name  on  the 
passport  was  not  his  true  name,  and  that  he  was  a 
refugee    Frenchman  —  a   suspicion  which  was,  of 


MADAME  BE  STAHL.  213 

course,  correct,     lie  was    to   be  imprisoned   until 
Monsieur  de  Reverdil,  a  certain  Swiss  magistrate, 
could  see  him  and  ascertain  whether  or  not  he  were 
a   Frenchman.     Here   was  a   crucial  case.     It  re- 
quired all  of  Madame  de  Stael's  skill  and  power. 
She  hastened  to  Monsieur  de  Reverdil,  who  luckily 
happened   to   be  an   old  family  friend.     She  was 
closeted  with  him  a  long  while,  arguing,  entreat- 
ing, demanding.     Her  object,  of  course,  was  to  per- 
suade him  to  save  the  young  man  by  a  falsehood, 
to  deny  his  French  identity.     Monsieur  Reverdil 
protested,  "  If  I  do  what  you  ask  and  if  the  truth 
be  discovered,  I  shall  no  longer  have  the  right  to 
claim  our  own  countrymen  when  they  are  arrested 
in  France.     Thus  I  shall  jeopardize  the  interests 
of  those  confided  to  my  official  care  for  the  sake  of 
a  man  who  has  no  legal  claim  on  me."     Madame 
listened  and  knew  that  he  was  speaking  sensibly 
and  justly.     But  all  the  while  she  was  thinking  of 
her   friend  Jancourt,  who  was  at   Coppet  and    to 
whom  she  desired  to  bring  back  the  assurance  of 
his  nephew's  safety.     She  swept  away  all  abstract 
reasoning,  all  considerations  of  possible  future  diffi- 
culty.    She  sought,  as  she  confessed,  to  overcome 
Monsieur  Reverdil's  conscience  by  his  humanity. 
"  If   you   say   no,"    again  and   again   she   sternly 
reiterated,  "an  only  son,  a  man  without  reproach, 
will  be  killed  within  twenty-four  hours  and  your 
word  will  have  slain  him."     The  Swiss  magistrate 
was  finally,  quite  inevitably  it  would  seem,  over- 


214  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

powered  and  vanquished.  The  young  man  was 
restored  to  his  uncle.     Madame  de  Stael  rejoiced. 

She  was  not  always  so  successful,  however. 
Sometimes  her  projects  failed  and  she  had  to  be  a 
messenger  of  sorrow  to  her  friends  at  Coppet.  At 
such  times  she  spoke  comfort  and  cheer  and,  when 
these  failed,  a  silent  sympathy,  more  expressive 
than  words,  looked  from  her  eyes.  Many  days  un- 
til the  Reign  of  Terror  had  passed  she  lived  thus, 
mourning,  helping,  comforting,  devoting  herself, 
her  fortune,  and  her  home  to  her  afflicted  friends. 

In  this  existence,  tragic  almost  in  its  sombre 
monotony,  the  only  interruptions  were  a  visit  to 
England  and  her  mother's  death.  The  memoire  of 
Fanny  Burney  (Madame  d'Arblay)  and  the  diary 
of  Mrs.  Phillips  present  interesting  pictures  of  the 
English  visit  of  the  Mickleham  colony  and  its 
band  of  exiles,  of  Talleyrand,  the  wit,  of  Monsieur 
de  Narbonne,  the  charming,  of  d'Arblay,  whom  after- 
wards Fanny  married,  and  of  Madame  de  Stael, 
imperfect  and  lovable  always. 

It  was  not  long  after  Madame  de  Stael's  return 
from  England  that  Madame  Necker  died.  Mother 
and  daughter  had  never  fully  understood  each 
other.  There  had  always  been  a  something  lacldng 
in  their  intercourse.  Yet  Madame  de  Stael  had 
appreciated  her  mother's  noble  character,  had  loved 
her,  and  now  mourned.  Her  keenest  grief,  how- 
ever, was  in  the  contemplation  of  her  father's 
sorrow.     Between  Necker  and  his  wife,  there  had 


MADAME  J)E  STAEL.  215 

always  existed  an  ideal  affection  and  devotion.  In 
their  life  together  Madame  de  Stael  had  seen 
realized  that  "  love  in  marriage  "  which  she  deemed 
tlie  highest  human  happiness.  »She  had  looked  on 
reverently,  yearningl}^,  sadly,  knowing  that  she 
herself  could  never  attain  that  happiness.  Now  it 
had  passed  and  Necker  sat  with  bowed  head  in  his 
study.  But  its  memory  was  to  be  to  tlie  daughter 
a  thing  beautiful  and  sacred,  a  perpetual  inspira- 
tion. 

During  the  months  of  the  Reign  of  Terror 
Madame  de  Stael  did  not  write.  Before  the  awful 
drama  that  was  being  enacted  in  her  native  land, 
her  muse  stood  silent  and  aghast,  speaking  only 
once,  and  then  in  eloquent  defence  of  the  unfortu- 
nate queen.  They  were  months  of  darkness,  of 
utter  discouragement  and  sadness.  And  yet,  while 
Madame  de  Stael  and  her  companion  spirits  were 
despairing,  "  the  period  of  their  deliverance,"  to 
quote  madame's  own  words,  "was  preparing." 
The  ninth  of  Thermidor  was  approaching,  the  fall 
of  Robespierre,  and  the  relief  of  France. 

Shortly  after  the  ninth  of  Thermidor  Madame  de 
Stael  returned  to  Paris.  Immediately  she  made 
her  appeal  to  the  people.  It  was  for  compromise, 
toleration,  unity.  Hitherto  she  had  been  a  consti- 
tutional royalist.  Now  she  became  avowedly  a 
republican.  It  was  one  tiling,  she  told  her  aristo- 
cratic friends,  to  oppose  a  republic  while  it  was 
still   an  experiment,  a  thing  of  doubtful  success, 


216  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

and  it  was  quite  another  thing  to  oppose  it  when  it 
was  established.  To  overthrow  the  repubhc,  she 
declared,  and  to  restore  the  old  monarchial  form  of 
government  would  necessitate  the  shedding  of  as 
much  blood  as  had  already  flowed,  and  she  revolted 
against  the  idea  of  further  bloodshed.  She  wanted 
peace  for  her  country,  a  healing,  reinstating  peace. 
Thus,  above  the  wi'angling  of  the  factions  at  the 
capital,  her  voice  rose  pleadingly,  gently,  soothingly. 

The  liberal  constitution  of  the  year  III.  (1795) 
and  the  first  six  months  of  the  directory  found  in 
her  an  eloquent  supporter.  And  yet  while  she 
declared  openly  and  fairly  for  the  new  government, 
her  allegiance  did  not  engross  her  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  interests  and  sympathies.  Her  great 
magnanimous  heart  could  not  bend  to  any  abstract 
theory  of  justice.  "  My  political  opinions,"  she 
once  declared,  "are  proper  names."  There  was 
some  truth  in  this  remark ;  her  political  opinions, 
while  firmly  founded  on  principle,  always  admitted 
abundant  scope  for  consideration  and  care  of  the 
unfortunate.  Thus  it  happened  that,  even  as  she 
took  her  stand  on  the  side  of  the  republic,  across 
the  chasm  that  separated  her  from  her  old-time 
beliefs  and  traditions,  she  extended  a  helping 
hand  to  her  friends  among  the  exiled  nobility  and 
clergy.  She  obtained  the  recall  of  Montmorency, 
Talleyrand,  and  the  Abbe  Montesquion. 

In  consequence  of  this  diligence  on  behalf  of  the 
aristocrats,  she  was  denounced  from  the  tribune  of 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  217 

the  convention.  The  aUaok,  howevci-,  was  foiled 
by  Barras,  a  friendly  member.  Aj^ain,  having  in- 
stigated the  recall  of  Nupont  de  Nemours  and 
certain  other  unpopular  individuals,  she  was  ad- 
vised, somewhat  threateningly,  by  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety  to  absent  herself  from  France, 
l^rudently,  but  very  much  against  her  will,  she 
retired  for  a  brief  while. 

She  was  soon  back  again  in  Paris  and  continued 
in  her  independeiit  course,  which  was  to  unite 
opposites,  to  reconcile,  so  far  as  she  was  able, 
irreconcilables.  Her  salon  was  still  hospitably  open 
to  Narbonne  and  Montmorency  and  other  constitu- 
tional royalists  of  old  time  acquaintance.  And 
once  every  decade  (for  thus  did  people  persist  in 
reckoning  time,  and  the  week  had  not  yet  reap- 
peared) she  received  Benjamin  Constant,  Chenier, 
the  poet,  and  the  writers  of  the  "  Decade  Philoso- 
phique."  Madame  de  Stael  was  never  exclusive  in 
her  social  connections,  but  at  all  times  liberal  and 
broadly  sympathetic,  even  to  the  point  of  indiscre- 
tion. 

Among  those  who  sat  once  every  decade  at  her 
table,  Benjamin  Constant  was  the  most  conspicu- 
ous, the  most  brilliant  guest.  An  old  young  man, 
weary  of  the  world  and  its  experiences,  he  had 
come  to  France  as  the  one  country  where  the  novel 
and  the  unexpected  might  yet  be  found.  Of 
course  he  created  a  sensation  in  the  Parisian  salons. 
With  his  long,  fair  hair,  his  clever,  handsome  face, 


218  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

and  his  awkward  grace  of  manner,  he  was,  first  of 
all,  of  an  unusual  and  attractive  appearance.  More- 
over, there  Avas  a  distinct  charm  in  his  capricious 
and  tormenting  pei*sonality.  Eternally  logical  and 
cynical,  without  illusions  and  without  enthusiasm, 
he  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the  ever  simple, 
ardent,  genial  Madame  de  Stael.  He  and  she  were 
drawn  to  each  other  by  the  law  of  opposites,  and 
reacted  the  one  upon  the  other,  catching  each 
other's  fires  of  genius,  and  shining  all  the  more 
brightly  for  their  reflected  lights. 

Early  in  their  intercoui-se,  the  Cercle  Constitu- 
tionnel  was  formed.  Of  this  republican  club,  which 
was  run  counter  to  the  ro^-alist  Club  de  Clichy, 
Constant  was  the  chief  orator  and  Madame  de 
Stael  the  soul.  Their  cry  was  for  moderation. 
They  desired  to  preserve  their  country  from  the 
two  extremes  of  royalism  and  terrorism.  How- 
ever, they  lifted  their  voices  in  vain.  Their  woret 
fears  were  realized  on  the  eighteenth  of  Fructidor 
(Sept.  4, 1797),  when  the  government  was  usurped 
by  the  Directory  and  a  military  despotism  estab- 
lished. Madame  de  Stael  had  exerted  her  influ- 
ence to  obtain  the  appointment  of  Talleyrand  to  the 
Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs,  hoping  thereby  to 
avert  disaster.  But  Talleyrand,  whose  selfish  nature 
for  some  unaccountable  reason  she  had  failed  to 
fathom,  disappointed  expectation,  and  in  spite  of 
her  earnest  efforts  the  events  of  the  eighteenth  of 
Fructidor  happened. 


MADAME   DE  STAEL.  219 

Two  years  later,  when  on  the  eighteenth  of  Bru- 
maire  (November  0)  the  government  passed  from 
the  hands  of  tlie  Directory  into  those  of  tlie  three 
Consuls,  Bonaparte,  Sieyes,  and  Roger  Ducos,  Ma- 
dame de  Stael's  attitude  became  one  of  opposition. 
She  and  Constant  united  in  a  firm  bond  of  resist- 
ance. These  two,  who  were  so  dissimilar,  were  one 
in  their  love  of  liberty  and  hatred  of  tyranny. 
The  antagonism  which  the  despotism  of  the  First 
Consul  woke  in  both  their  hearts  formed  the  final 
link  between  them.  Together  they  raised  a  cry, 
the  loudest  and  most  triumphant  in  denunciation 
of  the  new  government. 

Madame  de  Stael  had  been  favorably  impressed 
at  first  with  Napoleon,  She  recognized  his  great- 
ness, and  in  her  imagination  credited  him  with  a 
disinterestedness  and  higli-mindedness  which  he 
never  possessed.  When  she  heard  that  he  intended 
an  invasion  of  Switzerland,  she  went  to  him,  hoping 
to  dissuade  him  from  such  a  course.  Napoleon  re- 
ceived her  graciously,  listened  to  her  patientl}^  but 
to  all  her  arguments  and  pleadings  he  replied  with 
talk  in  praise  of  solitude,  country  life,  and  the  fine 
arts,  for  all  which  things,  be  it  understood,  he 
cared  not  a  straw.  Madame  de  Stael  departed 
from  his  presence  convinced  that  the  eloquence  of 
Cicero  and  Demosthenes  combined  could  not  move 
him,  yet  charmed  against  her  will  by  his  pleasant 
manner,  his  "  false  bonhomie."  She  had  failed  in 
her  project,  but  she  had  learned  to  know  the  man. 


220  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

He  was,  she  determined,  a  person  of  individual 
purpose,  indifferent  to  suffering,  devoted  to  mate- 
rial success. 

As  for  Napoleon's  feeling  toward  Madame  de 
Stael,  it  was  hatred  from  the  start.  He  liked 
women  to  be  pretty  toys,  without  opinions  and 
Avithout  emotions.  This  Madame  de  Stael,  who 
had  such  decided  views  on  all  subjects,  who  was  so 
overpowering  in  lier  conversation,  so  energetic  in 
her  conduct,  so  notoriously  noble  and  unselfish  in 
her  character,  she  exasperated  and  antagonized 
him.  Moreover,  he  feared  her  as  a  dangerous  rival. 
He  was  able  to  repress  other  people,  but  her  he 
could  not  repress.  She  was  a  star  whom  his  all- 
glorious  and  all-dazzling  sunshine  could  not  extin- 
i^uish.  She  received  in  her  salon  the  most  Intel- 
lectual  people  of  the  age.  She  inspired  them  with 
her  spirit.  She  was  the  centre  from  which  the 
opposition  emanated. 

Upon  his  coming  to  power  on  the  eighteenth  of 
Brumaire,  Napoleon  seemed  desirous  of  winning 
her  to  his  side.  His  brother,  Joseph  Bonaparte, 
whom  Madame  de  Stael  numbered  among  her 
friends,  went  to  her  with  a  question  that  sounded 
like  a  message  from  the  Consul.  What  was  it  she 
desired,  it  was  asked.  Did  she  wish  the  two  mill- 
ions to  be  restored  to  her  father,  or  residence  in 
Paris  permitted  him  ?  On  both  these  points  she 
should  be  satisfied.  Then  it  was  that  she  spoke 
those    words    that   have   become    historic :     "  The 


MADAME  BE  STAEL.  221 

question  is  not  what  I  wanl^  but  what  I 
fhink.'' 

Protests  against  the  growing  despotism  of  Na- 
poleon were  proceeding  from  the  Tribunat.  Cons- 
tant was  the  leader  of  the  opposition,  and  it  was 
a  known  fact  tliat  Madame  de  Stael  api3lauded  and 
even  instigated  him.  She  was  by  no  means  igno- 
laut  of  the  risk  she  ran  and  may  have  anticipated 
already  in  her  thought  the  exile  that  awaited  her. 

On  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which  Constant  was  to 
make  his  celebrated  speech,  Madame  de  Stael  was 
in  her  salon  surrounded  by  her  friends.  Constant 
di'ew  her  aside  and  warned  her  that  if  he  spoke 
as  they  had  agreed  that  he  should  speak,  on  the 
morrow,  her  rooms  would  be  empty,  she  would 
be  deserted.  Nevertheless  she  replied  firmly : 
"  You  must  obey  your  conscience."  Often  in 
later  years,  worn  out  with  suffering,  she  came 
near  to  regretting  that  answer,  yet  always  in  her 
truest  moments  she  rejoiced  in  it. 

Constant  spoke.  On  the  same  day,  Madame 
de  Stael  had  invited  to  dinner  several  persons 
whose  society  she  said  she  particularly  enjoyed, 
but  who  were  all  adherents  of  the  new  govern- 
ment. The  dinner  hour  approached,  but  instead 
of  guests,  notes  of  excuse  arrived.  Her  friends 
ceremoniously  abandoned  her,  among  them  he 
whose  recall  from  exile  and  whose  appointment 
to  the  ministry  she  had  obtained.  Madame  de 
Stael    was    not   surprised,  perhaps,  but    she    was 


222  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

wounded,  and  in  her  most  tender  part,  her  heart. 

From  this  time  on  until  1803  Madame  de  Stael 
lived  altematelv  at  Coppet  and  Paris.  Her  resist- 
ance of  Napoleon's  despotism  was  constantly 
forcing  her  away  from  the  city,  her  own  influence 
there  was  as  constantly  drawing  her  back  again 
and  reinstating  her.  She  may  be  said  to  have 
fluctuated,  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  popular 
opinion,  between  the  two  places. 

During  this  period  Madame  de  Stael  separated 
from  her  husband.  Tlie  reason  was  given  that 
the  baron  was  a  spendthrift  and  she  wished  to 
secure  beyond  his  reach  the  fortunes  of  her 
children,  August,  Albert,  and  Albertine.  The 
baron  went  out  of  her  life  without  leaving  any 
deep  impression  upon  it.  He  died  in  1802.  Hear- 
ing of  his  illness,  Madame  de  Stael  went  to  him 
and  nursed  him  and  set  out  to  take  him  with 
her  to  Coppet,  but    he  died  on  the  way   thither. 

Madame  de  Stael  was  at  this  time  more  than 
thirty  years  of  age.  Though  still  comparatively 
young,  she  had  experienced  much.  She  had 
known  persecution  and  calumny  and  the  falling 
off  of  friends.  She  had  realized,  too,  to  her  sor- 
row, that  she  would  never  be  loved  with  a  love 
such  as  she  could  give.  She  determined,  how- 
ever, not  to  be  disheartened,  but  to  devote  her 
life  and  her  talents  to  her  writing,  to  win  by 
means  of  her  pen  a  fame  that  should  compensate 
her    for    what    she    was    denied.     "  Let  us,"  she 


MADAME  I)E  STAKL.  223 

wrote  in  a  preface  to  one  of  her  famous  works, 
"stand  up  under  the  weight  of  existence.  Let 
us  not  give  our  unjust  enemies  and  our  ungrate- 
ful friends  the  triumph  of  having  crushed  our 
intellectual  forces.  Those  who  would  have  been 
content  with  affection,  they  have  reduced 
to  the  strife  for  glory.  Well,  then,  that  glory 
shall  be  won." 

She  had  already  published  her  book  on  the 
"  Passions  "  and  her  work  on  "  Literature,"  the 
latter  in  1801.  Half  of  Paris,  out  of  compliment 
to  Napoleon,  had  condemned  what  she  had  written, 
the  rest  had  applauded,  and  lier  deserted  salon 
was  once  more  thronged  with  guests.  But  her 
three  greatest  triumphs,  "  Delphine,"  "  Corinne," 
and  "  Germany,"  were  still  before  her. 

Toward  the  close  of  1802  "  Delphine  "  appeared. 
Immediately  the  newspapers  were  full  of  it. 
Every  one  was  talking  about  it.  Some  denounced 
it,  others  were  enthusiastic  in  their  praise  of  it, 
But,  while  voices  were  disputing  as  to  its  merit, 
all  were  one  in  declaring  that  the  book  was  a 
success. 

The  fact  that  many  of  the  characters  were 
drawn  from  life  added  to  the  interest  of  the  book. 
People  searched  its  pages  for  portraits,  and  found 
them.  Delphine,  it  was  determined,  was  the 
author  herself,  Madame  de  Stael,  in  her  youth, 
with  all  her  early  illusions  and  hopes  and  senti- 
ments ;    M.  Labensei     was     Benjamin     Constant 


224  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

idealized,  so  it  was  declared ;  and  Madame  de 
Vernon,  it  was  whispered,  was  in  feminine  dis- 
guise that  famous  politician  who  had  repaid 
Madame  de  Stael's  many  kindnesses  by  pleasantly 
and  selfishly  declining  her  invitation  to  dinner 
and  thereby  deserting  her. 

The  success  of  "  Delphine  "  added  greatly  to 
madame's  influence.  Her  salon  was  more  crowded 
than  ever  before.  Even  so  illustrious  a  pereon 
as  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  among  her  guests. 
This  was  reported  to  Napoleon  ;  and  it  was  added 
maliciously  by  the  informant  that  every  rebellious 
word  and  deed  w^hich  preceded  from  the  Tribunat 
was  known  and  approved  by  Madame  de  Stael. 
Napoleon's  imperial  wrath  (he  had  recently  been 
declared  Consul  for  life)  blazed  out  at  the  news. 
Formerly  he  had  only  intimated  his  desires  that 
madame  should  betake  herself  into  the  country. 
This  time  he  commanded.  Madame  de  Stael 
received  a  letter  signed  by  Napoleon  ordering  her 
to  depart  to  a  distance  of  forty  leagues  from  Paris. 

Thus  began  Madame  de  Stael's  ten  years  of 
exile.  Forced  to  leave  France,  Madame  de  Stael 
turned  her  steps  to  Germany.  She  travelled 
tliither  in  company  with  Constant  (who  was  also 
exiled)  and  her  three  children.  A  new  sphere 
had  opened  out  before  her.  Hitherto,  by  choice 
she  had  confined  herself  to  Paris  and  the  Parisian 
people.  Henceforth  she  was  to  make  the  continent 
her  stage   and   all    the    people    of    Europe    her 


MADAME  BE  8TAEL.  225 

audience.  Her  mind,  coming  within  range  of  the 
great  minds  of  other  countries,  was  to  broaden  and 
receive  additional  force  and  inspiration. 

Yet,  spite  of  the  many  splendors  of  the  new  and 
vast  lield  on  which  she  had  entered,  Madame  de 
Stael,  while  glorying  in  these  splendors,  sighed 
yearningly  for  the  little  plot  of  home  territory  that 
was  forbidden  ground.  Launched  in  eloquent 
praise  of  Germany,  its  enlightenment,  its  culture, 
and  its  institutions,  she  would  break  off  abruptly. 
"  Oh,  for  a  morsel  of  France  !  "  she  would  exclaim. 
She  spoke  of  her  travels  as  a  continuous  chain,  of 
which  one  end  was  Paris  and  the  other  her 
heart. 

In  Germany  Madame  de  Stael  visited  Berlin  and 
Weimar  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  Goethe, 
Schiller,  Heine,  Schlegel,  and  the  German  princes. 
Goethe  admired  her  against  his  will.  Schiller  found 
her  the  most  talkative  and  the  most  intellectual 
of  women,  and  complained  with  a  delightful  ming- 
ling of  pathos  and  humor  that  the  devil  had  sent 
"  the  French  female  philosopher  "  to  torment  him 
just  in  the  middle  of  his  new  play.  Heine 
described  her  as  "a  whirlwind  in  petticoats." 
And  Schlegel  comprehended  her,  appreciated  her, 
and  made  himself  her  friend. 

A  sad  event,  perhaps  the  saddest  in  her  life,  re- 
called Madame  de  Stael  from  Germany  and  brought 
her  back  to  Coppet.  Her  father,  who  was  the 
one  dearest  to  her  in  the  world,  died.     At  a  much 


22G  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

later  day,  when  madame  herself  was  dying,  she 
spoke  thus  to  a  friend :  "  I  have  always  been  the 
same  intense  and  sorrowful.  I  have  loved  God, 
my  father,  and  liberty."  Grave,  beautiful  words, 
they  reveal  her  soul  in  all  its  strength,  simplicity, 
and  fervor.  From  them  we  know  the  place  her 
father  held  in  her  affections  and  may  realize  what 
losing  him  meant  to  her.  One  of  Necker's  last 
acts  had  been  to  plead  with  Napoleon  (fruitlessly, 
of  course)  for  his  daughter.  "  It  was  the  last 
time,"  wrote  Madame  de  Stael,  "that  his  protect- 
ing hand  was  extended  over  my  life." 

Madame  de  Stael  passed  her  season  of  first 
mourning  in  editing  her  father's  works.  In  1804 
she  set  out  with  August  Schlegel  and  her  three 
children  for  Italy.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  under 
the  bluest  of  skies  and  the  tutorship  of  Schlegel, 
she  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  fine  arts.  Here 
she  conversed  with  the  Roman  princes,  was  made 
an  Arcadian  Academician  and  had  "  endless  son- 
nets "  written  to  her.  And  here,  too,  she  dreamed, 
and  conceived  that  poetic  "  Corinne,"  which  was 
later  to  be  born  to  the  world  of  literature. 

Immediately  upon  her  return  to  Switzerland, 
Madame  de  Stael  began  to  write  "  Corinne."  As 
she  drew  near  to  its  close,  her  homesickness  for 
Paris  became  intense.  When  her  attention  was 
called  to  the  beauty  of  Leman,  she  could  only  turn 
away  her  face  and  sigh.  "  Oh,  for  the  stream  of 
the  Rue  du  Bac ! "  she  exclaimed.     The  Rue  du 


MADAME   BE  STAKL.  227 

Bac  flowed  near  her  city  residence,  and  once, 
when  a  friend  with  whom  she  was  walking  paused 
to  admire  the  view,  "So,"  slie  observed,  "still 
prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  country  ! "  And  then, 
perceiving  that  she  had  said  something  surprising, 
slie  smiled  apologetically.  Thus  she  was  contin- 
ually disclosing  her  lack  of  appreciation  of  nature 
and  her  absorbing  passion  for  society,  conversation, 
and  the  haunts  of  men,  especially  for  all  these 
things  as  they  existed  in  Paris. 

At  length  the  magnet  proving  irresistible  and 
Fouchet,  the  chief  of  police,  whose  policy  it  was  to 
do  "  as  little  needless  harm  as  possible,"  conde- 
scending to  shut  one  eye,  she  shortened  the  pro- 
scribed distance  to  eighteen  leagues  and  established 
herself  at  Acosta.  Here  she  received  her  friends, 
and  read  the  proof-sheets  of  her  book,  and  occa- 
sionally ventured  stealthily,  by  the  light  of  the 
stars,  within  the  l)Ounds  of  her  beloved  city.  Her 
sincere  emotion  got  the  better  of  her  dignity. 
And  yet,  do  we  love  her  any  the  less  for  this  ? 

In  1807  Corinne  was  published.  It  was  wel- 
comed by  all  Europe  and  enthusiastically  praised. 
It  gave  to  the  world  of  literature  one  more  immor- 
tal character,  one  more  love  song  that  men  would 
not  forget.  In  Corinne,  as  in  Delphine,  people 
recognized  Madame  de  Stael.  "  Corinne  is  Del- 
phine," wrote  the  poet  Chenier,  "  Delphine  matured 
and  acting  under  the  twofold  inspiration  of  genius 
and  love." 


228  MADAME  DE  STAEL. 

Of  coui-se,  tlie  ruler  of  France  was  incensed  by 
this  new  triumph  of  liis  rival.  A  scathing  criti- 
cism of  the  book,  whicli  appeared  shortly  after  its 
publication,  in  the  columns  of  the  ]\Ioniteur,  was 
reported  to  have  been  written  by  his  imperial 
hand.  A  new  decree  of  punishment  followed. 
Madame  de  Stael  was  once  more  driven  back  to 
Coppet. 

Coppet,  the  brilliant,  the  regal,  the  inspired ! 
Although  Madame  de  Stael  turned  her  steps  tliither 
so  reluctantly  and  fretted  against  her  residence 
there  like  a  prisoner  against  his  iron  bar,  neverthe- 
less it  was  at  Coppet  that  she  appeared  in  her  full 
majesty  and  at  her  best,  and  it  is  at  Coppet  that 
imagination  likes  best  to  place  her. 

At  Coppet  she  was  always  surrounded  by  a  court 
that  represented  the  talent,  wit,  beauty,  birth,  and 
intellect  of  Europe.  Among  the  most  frequent  of 
her  visitors  were  Constant  and  Schlegel,  Sismondi 
and  Bonstetten,  the  famous  beauty,  Madame 
Recamier,  with  whom  all  the  world  was  in  love, 
and  the  priestess  who  had  once  been  so  notorious  a 
coquette,  Madame  de  Kriidner. 

The  world  at  Coppet  had  its  various  moods. 
Sometimes  it  was  serious  and  philosophic ;  then 
words  flew  among  the  company  like  arrows,  a  very 
rain  of  them,  pointed,  swift,  and  sure,  and  never 
did  arrows  make  more  dazzling  flights  than  the 
winged  words  of  Constant  and  Madame  de  Stael. 
Sometimes,  again,  the  world  at  Coppet  was  merely 


MABAME  DE  STAEL.  229 

gay,  enjoyment  was  tlic  order  of  the  clay;  then 
plays  were  acted,  often  classics,  but  oftener  come- 
dies and  tragedies  written  by  the  hostess  or  one  of 
the  guests.  And  finally  the  world  at  Coppet  was 
sometimes  fractious  and  had  its  (jiiarrellings  and 
making's-up.  Beneath  the  trees,  beside  the  lake, 
love  was  declared  and  Iiearts  were  broken  and 
enduring  friendships  were  formed. 

In  tlie  world  of  Coppet,  so  Arcadian,  so  Edenlike 
if  we  do  not  seek  to  study  it  too  long  or  too  closely, 
there  were  occasional  storms.  All  was  not  calm 
and  pleasant  between  Constant  and  Madame  de 
Stael.  They  were  continually  accusing  each  other, 
apologizing,  and  making  promises.  Constant 
desired  to  marry  Madame  de  Stael.  She,  however, 
would  only  consent  to  a  secret  marriage,  and  he 
would  have  none  but  an  open  one.  Madame  Re- 
camier  was  the  peace-maker  between  them.  She  rec- 
onciled them  to  each  other,  and  then  they  quarrelled 
again.  Finally,  in  1808,  Constant  himself  put  an 
end  to  all  these  complications  and  perplexities  by 
marriage  with  another  woman. 

Toward  the  close  of  1807  Madame  de  Stael  left 
Coppet  and  made  a  second  visit  to  Germany.  She 
stayed  there  collecting  material  for  a  book  on  Ger- 
many which  she  was  planning  to  write.  She 
returned  to  Co})pet  in  the  fall  of  1808  and  straight- 
way entered  upon  her  new  work.  For  two  years 
she  labored  steadily  in  the  composition  of  this,  her 
longest  and  most  arduous  literary  production.     As 


230  MADAME  BE  STAEL. 

soon  as  she  had  completed  it  she  established  herself 
at  Blois  for  the  sake  of  correcting  the  proof-sheets 
as  they  issued  from  the  press. 

The  story  of  the  suppression  of  the  book,  culmi- 
nating act  of  Napoleon's  cruelty,  is  well-known. 
The  literary  censors  seized  it  on  the  very  eve  of  its 
publication.  The  sheets  were  sent  to  the  paste- 
board maker  and  were  destroyed,  and  the  authoress 
was  commanded  to  leave  Paris  within  three  days 
for  Coppet.  The  book  was  not  published  until 
three  years  later,  1813,  when  it  appeared  in  Eng- 
land and  was  the  event  of  the  season. 

Madame  de  Stael's  bitterness  on  the  occasion  of 
the  suppression  of  her  book  may  be  imagined. 
Her  time  and  labor  wasted  and  oppression  redoubled 
when  she  was  beginning  to  hope  for  reconciliation ! 
One  does  not  wonder  that  her  great  heart  sank 
under  this  added  weight  of  persecution. 

Her  marriage  to  Monsieur  Rocca,  which  occurred 
at  this  time,  served  in  a  measure  to  lighten  the 
burden.  Madame  de  Stael  had  always  longed  for 
love.  Not  many  knew  this.  The  world  in  general 
believed  her  all  mind.  Some  few,  however,  such 
as  Byron,  divined  in  her  the  presence  of  an  unseen 
force,  a  deep,  emotional  nature.  Her  marriage 
with  Rocca,  a  young  man  twenty  years  her  junior, 
revealed  her  secret  at  a  late  and  (as  society  judged) 
at  an  untimely  date.  Her  own  mature  age  and 
Rocca's  wounds  and  failing  health  gave  to  this 
tardy  happiness  an  air  of  sadness. 


MADAME  BE  STAEL.  231 

The  year  1811,  following  the  suppression  of  her 
Germany  and  preceding  her  flight,  was  a  hard 
year,  indeed  one  might  almost  say  the  hardest  year, 
for  Madame  de  Stael.  Then  no  longer  her  "  motif  " 
rippled,  even  for  a  moment,  lightly,  brightly  in  the 
treble  key.  It  sounded  now  only  in  those  sombre 
chords,  those  final  harmonies  that  were  to  intro- 
duce the  noble  funeral  march.  Her  youth,  in 
which  she  had  rejoiced  so  fondly,  was  gone. 
Friends  were  cooling,  darkening  towards  her,  and 
deserting  her.  Others,  the  true,  were  made  to 
suffer  for  her  sake.  Madame  Recamier  and  Ma- 
thieu  de  Montmorency  were  banished  from  France 
in  consequence  of  a  visit  which  they  paid  her. 
Schlegel,  accountably  for  no  other  reason  than  his 
faithfulness  to  her,  was  ordered  to  leave  Coppet. 
More  than  all  else  Madame  de  Stael  lamented  this 
striking  down  of  her  devoted  friends.  "  I  am  the 
Orestes  of  exile,"  she  declared,  sorrowfully 

At  this  point,  this  crisis  in  her  vicissitudes,  the 
prefect  of  Geneva  came  to  her  and  suggested  that 
she  write  something  in  honor  of  Napoleon's  son, 
the  little  king  of  Rome,  and  thereby  instate  herself 
in  favor.  She  replied  unhesitatingly  with  one  of 
those  brilliant  flashes  of  repartee  that  so  illumi- 
nated her  discourse.  "•  All  I  desire  for  the  child  is 
a  good  nurse,"  she  said.  Her  love  of  liberty,  her 
indomitable  spirit,  never  faltered  and,  though  so 
sorely  pressed,  she  would  not  stoop  to  propitiate 
her  pei-secutor  by  one  word  of  praise. 


232  MADAME  BE   STAEL. 

Meanwhile,  to  Madame  de  Stael  Europe  had 
become  a  prison .  She  studied  its  map ;  planning 
whither  she  should  make  her  escape.  She  de- 
termined upon  England.  But  so  closely  was  she 
watched,  so  restricted  was  she  in  her  movements, 
that  she  was  forced  to  travel  thither  stealthily  by 
way  of  Brussels  and  Sweden.  She  stayed  in  Eng- 
land until  the  happy  time  when  the  abdication  of 
Napoleon  and  the  Restoration  opened  the  gates  of 
Paris  to  her.  Then,  once  more  her  eager  foot- 
steps Ave  re  treading  the  dear,  familiar  streets. 

She  brought  to  the  capital,  with  her,  politics  that 
were  no  longer  republican.  The  English  consti- 
tution had  taken  possession  of  her  mind.  She 
returned  to  that  liberal  royalism  of  opinion  that 
she  had  professed  in  her  youthful  days  beneath  her 
father's  roof.  She  was  weary  of  the  political  tur- 
moil through  which  France  had  been  passing  and 
desired  for  her  countr}^  a  system  mild,  "  homelike," 
and  old  fashioned. 

During  the  all  too  brief  term  of  life  that  remained 
to  her,  Madame  de  Stael  resumed  her  old  ways. 
Once  more  she  held  court  in  her  Parisian  salon 
and  received  there  as  in  former  days  LaFayette,  Lally 
Tollendal,  Montmorency,  even  the  faitliless  Talley- 
rand. In  Madame  de  Stael's  generous  soul  there 
was  no  place  for  rancor,  and  she  welcomed  friends 
and  forgave  offenders  with  an  indiscriminate  cord- 
iality of  spirit. 

Her  last  days  were  made  pleasant  for  her  by  the 


MADAME  BE  STAEL.  233 

liappy  marriage  of  her  daughter  Albertine,  the  noble 
career  of  her  eldest  son  August,  and  the  devotion 
of  her  young  husband.  Her  friends,  too,  many  of 
whom  had  estranged  themselv^es  from  her,  gathered 
affectionately  about  her  again.  At  her  side  appeared 
the  faces  of  Montmorency,  Sismondi,  Constant, 
and  tlie  dear  Juliette  (Madame  Recamier),  and  her 
celebrated  lover,  Chateaubriand.  For  the  last  time 
the  "  dark,  magnificent "  eyes  smiled  upon  them 
and  the  eloquent  lips  spoke  final  words  of  comfort 
and  love. 

All  Europe  mourned  the  death  of  Madame  de 
Stael.  Many  funeral  tributes  were  rendered  to 
her  in  many  places  and  at  many  times.  Of  these 
none,  perhaps,  was  more  touching  and  sincere  than 
the  visit  paid  by  Madame  Recamier  and  Chateau- 
briand to  her  home,  of  winch  Chateaubriand  has 
told  us.  Fifteen  years  had  passed  since  the  death 
of  Madame  de  Stael  when  he  and  Madame  Reca- 
mier together  made  their  pilgrimage  to  Coppet. 

The  chateau  was  deserted,  but  memories  every- 
where met  Madame  Recamier,  and  she  communed 
with  them  silently,  viewing  those  spots  where 
Madame  de  Stael  had  played  the  piano,  and  talked, 
and  written.  With  her  lover  at  her  side,  she  wan- 
dered out  into  the  park  and,  not  wishing  to  display 
her  grief,  she  parted  from  him  and  went  alone  to 
the  grave.  The  figure  of  the  weeping  Juliette  and 
that  of  her  melancholy  companion  at  the  gate,  the 
mountains,  the  lake,  and  the  "  clouds  of  gold  spread- 


234  MADAME  DE  STA&L. 

ing  like  a  glory  above  a  bier"  present  a  picture 
impressive  and  memorable.  It  serves  as  a  fitting 
and  final  monument  to  the  genius  of  the  most 
famous  of  famous  French  women,  Madame  de  Stael. 


MADAME  R^CAMIER. 


Bom  in  Lyons,  Dec.  4,  1777. 
Died  in  Taris,  May  11,  1849. 


"  Beloved  always  and  by  all  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave." 

—  Madame  d' Ilautefenille. 

It  was  referred  to  tenderly,  reverently  as  "  the 
little  cell."  Without,  the  sun  set  OA^er  the  hills  of 
Sevres,  and  slender  church  spires  touched  the  sky, 
and  nuns  walked  in  the  quiet  convent  garden  and 
pupils  played  beneath  the  shade  of  the  acacia 
trees.  "Within  there  were  books  and  pictures,  a 
piano  and  a  harp.  Flower-pots  stood  in  the  win- 
dows and  birds  perched  on  the  blinds.  And  over 
all  was  an  atmosphere  of  mystery,  of  seclusion,  of 
distinction.  Those  who  climbed  the  stairs  and 
crossed  the  threshold  did  so  with  a  certain  uplift 
of  the  spirit  and  a  softening  of  voice.  They  came 
to  the  cell  as  to  a  sanctuary. 

One  finds  it  difficult  to  apply  to  the  little  cell 
the  name  of  salon.  Yet  such  it  was.  Situated  in 
the  Abbaye-aux-Bois  at  a  remote  end  of  Paris,  it 
could  not  have  been  more  retired.  Yet  fashion 
found  it  out  and  made  its  way  there.  No  spot 
was  more  visited.  There  Gerard  came  to  show  his 
pictures,    Lamartine   to   read    his    "  Meditations," 

235 


236  MADAME  RECAMIEE. 

and  Delphine  Gay  to  recite  her  verses.  Of  various 
talents,  ranks,  and  parties,  they  assembled  from  all 
quarters.  Conspicuous  among  them  were  Benjamin 
Constant  and  Ballanche,  the  philosopher,  Matthieu 
de  Montmorenc}^  M.  J.  J.  Ampere,  Eugene  Dela- 
croix, David  d'  Angers,  Augustin  Perier,  Monsieur 
]3ertin,  and  he  who  was  crowned  king  over  all, 
Chateaubriand.  It  was  a  little  world,  select  and 
yet  inclusive,  that  travelled  daily  to  the  Abbaye-aux- 
Bois.  It  mingled  its  life,  its  sparkle,  with  the 
shadows  of  the  convent.  And  thus  it  may  be 
said  the  little  cell  became  a  sort  of  half-way  house 
l)etween  the  two  extremes  of  worldliness  and  other 
worldliness. 

Of  course  there  was  the  magnet,  the  dweller  in 
the  little  cell,  she  who  by  the  law  of  irresistible 
attraction  drew  society  with  her  into  her  seclusion. 
She  had  already  reached  the  period  of  the  "  much 
dreaded  forties."  Yet  she  was  still  "  Juliette," 
the  fair,  the  incomparable,  the  best  beloved  woman 
in  France. 

Perhaps  you  went  to  see  her  prejudiced  against 
her,  incredulous  of  that  charm  of  which  you  had 
heard  so  much.  She  was  only  a  pretty  coquette, 
you  told  yourself.  She  had  done  more  harm  than 
good  in  tlie  world.  She  was  admired  merely  be- 
cause she  was  the  fashion.  You  were  determined 
that  she  should  not  captivate  you.  You  climbed 
the  naiTow  stairway,  you  stood  on  the  threshold 
of  the  little  cell.     A  Avoman  of  dark,  curling  hair. 


MADAME    RSCAMIER. 
From  a  painting  by  David  in  the  Louvre. 


MADAME  RECAMIEE.  237 

of  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  wonderful  radiance  of  com- 
plexion came  toward  yon.  Slie  spoke  your  name, 
she  greeted  yon.  Immediately  you  felt  that  you 
had  stepped  within  the  circle  of  kindness  and 
benevolence.  She  asked  yon  a  few  questions  not 
with  politeness  only,  but  witli  a  real  and  undis- 
guised interest.  You  answered  and  she  listened 
with  a  smile  that  said,  "  I  understand."  You 
grew  eloquent,  you  outdid  yourself,  j^ou  talked 
as  you  had  never  talked  before.  You  were  pleased 
with  yourself,  with  every  one  about  you,  and  most 
of  all  with  her  against  whom  you  had  previously 
been  so  determined.  Thus  the  work  of  conquest 
was  accomplished.  You  came^  you  saio^  but  invari- 
ably it  was  she  who  conquered. 

It  is  at  the  Abbaye-aux-Bois  that  imagination 
likes  best  to  place  Madame  Recamier.  There, 
divested  of  youth  and  fortune  and  the  first  flush  of 
her  radiant  beauty,  she  appears  in  a  softened  and 
poetic  light.  There,  too,  her  goodness,  unchanged 
b}'^  circumstance,  rises  to  a  height  that  has  been 
termed  "  celestial."  Never  before  has  she  occupied 
a  place  so  important  and  so  lofty.  It  is  there  that 
she  seems  most  fitly  to  belong. 

Nevertheless,  the  period  of  her  youth,  of  her  fu-st 
conquests  and  early  indiscretions  is  not  without 
its  interest  and  glamor.  The  record  of  that  time 
reads  very  like  a  mythical  tale,  a  chapter  of  ro- 
mance. All  the  good  fairies  seem  to  have  been 
present  at  her  birth  and  to  have  bestowed  upon  her 


238  MADAME  rScAMTER. 

gifts  of  fortune  more  plentiful  even  than  her  names. 
And  her  names  certainly  were  not  few.  Jeanne 
Frau9ois  Julie  Adelaide  Bernard  she  was  chris- 
tened. In  thinking  of  her,  however,  in  addressing 
her,  it  was  only  the  name  Julie  that  was  remem- 
bered, Julie  transformed  into  Juliette.  It  was  the 
name  that  best  suited  her.  She  was  most  unmis- 
takably a  Juliette,  and  a  Juliette  whose  Romeo 
was  never  far  away. 

Even  in  her  pretty  childhood  she  was  not  with- 
out her  Romeo.  In  such  rare  glimpses  as  we  have 
of  her  playing  beside  the  bright  waters  of  the  Loire 
or  climbing  a  tree  to  pick  the  grapes  that  grew  in 
a  neighbor's  garden,  we  see  her  never  unattended. 
There  is  always  at  her  side  some  ardent  young 
squire. 

Yet  it  was  no  youthful  gallant  who,  while  she 
was  yet  a  child,  won  her  hand  in  marriage.  It  was 
instead  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  a  friend  of  her 
parents.  Among  the  gaests  who  were  received  by 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Bernard  in  their  house  in 
Paris,  whither,  on  monsieur's  appointment  as  col- 
lector of  customs,  they  had  repaired,  was  a  former 
citizen  of  theirs.  Monsieur  R^camier.  He  was  a 
wealthy  banker,  affable  and  courtly.  When  he  and 
Juliette  were  married  he  was  forty-two  and  she 
fifteen.  The  tie  between  them  was  never  anything 
but  nominal  and  liis  attitude  to  her  was  always 
one  of  paternal  fondness  and  indulgence. 

It  was  m  the  period  of  the  Consulate  that  Madame 


MADAME  RtCAMIER.  239 

R^camier,  all-dazzling  and  all-enchanting,  made  her 
debut.  She  was  immediately  admired,  surrounded, 
courted.  There  was  danger  in  the  world  which 
she  eJitered,  a  danger  like  fire.  In  her  innocence 
and  fearlessness  she  played  with  the  fire,  she  rev- 
elled in  the  danger.  Yet  she  never  descended  from 
her  higli  altitude  or  came  into  too  close  contact  with 
the  flames.  Among  the  gifts  which  the  good  fairies 
had  bestowed  upon  her  was  a  triumphant  purity. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  good  fairies  who  visited 
Juliette.  We  must  not  forget  a  certain  naughty 
little  fairy.  It  is  now  time  to  mention  her.  It  was 
she  who  gave  to  Juliette  the  spirit  of  coquetry. 
People  are  forever  trying  to  excuse  this  coquetry. 
Madame  de  Stael  called  it  "benevolent,"  and 
Sainte  Beuve  characterized  it  as  "  angelic."  It  had 
indeed,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  something  of 
a  sweet  and  soothing  character.  Without  a  thought 
of  harmmg  any  one,  the  lovely  Juliette  shot  her  ar- 
rows ;  they  always  hit,  and  when  she  saw  she 
had  inflicted  wounds,  she  hastened  to  apply  the 
balm  of  friendship.  It  was  marvellous,  the  way  in 
which  she  converted  lovers  into  friends.  She  did 
not  extinguish  the  passions  she  inspired.  Rather 
she  tempered  them.  She  did  not  lead  one  from  the 
tropics  to  the  snows,  but  to  that  mild  and  temperate 
zone  which  she  inhabited  and  which  was  not  with- 
out its  sunshine  and  its  flowers. 

Thus  Madame  Recamier  was  "benevolent"    in 
lier  coquetry,  she  was  "  angehc."     Yet  those  who 


240  MADAME  RECAMIER. 

excuse  her  have  to  censure  her  as  Avell.  She  could 
not  heal  all  whom  she  wounded.  Some,  it  is  said, 
remained  incurahly  hardened  and  embittered.  And 
we  are  reminded  of  women,  her  unfortunate  rivals, 
wives,  and  sweethearts  neglected  for  her  sake. 
They  appear  never  to  have  accused  her.  Yet  they 
must  have  had,  many  of  them,  their  heartaches, 
which  they  endured  in  silence. 

All  this  reveals  what  Sainte  Beuve  calls  "the 
dark  side  "  in  the  character  of  Madame  Recamier. 
It  was  a  darkness  which,  in  her  later  days,  she  her- 
self realized  and  regretted.  She  found  the  ex- 
planation and  punishment  in  a  fate  that  excluded 
her  from  all  the  close  affections  of  domestic  life. 
Married  to  a  man  who  was  her  father  rather  than 
her  husband,  she  lived  what  may  be  termed  a  soli- 
tary existence.  No  one  was  so  admired,  so  loved, 
so  feted  as  she,  yet  no  one  was  more  alone.  Some- 
times she  turned  from  her  triumphs  and  her 
conquests  to  weep  a  few  tears  in  longing  for  the 
happiness  that  was  denied  her.  Ballanche,  her 
lo3'al  friend,  who  understood  her  so  perfectly,  was 
right  in  likening  her  to  the  phoenix.  She  "  fed  on 
perfumes  "  and  "  lived  in  the  purest  regions  of  the 
air,  yet  envied  the  humble  fate  of  the  white  dove 
because  she  had  a  companion  like  herself." 

In  the  absence  of  home  ties  it  was  in  friendsliip 
that  Madame  Recamier  found  lier  pleasure  and 
consolation,  one  might  almost  say  her  vocation.  It 
was   to  friendship    that  she    devoted  herself  faith- 


MADAME  RtCAMIER.  241 

full}',  zealously,  unselfishly.  She  was  never  known 
1(1  uhandon  any  one  to  whom  she  had  once  given 
her  affection.  Her  loyalty,  Madame  de  Stael  said, 
was  like  "  the  spring  in  the  desert." 

She  was  equally  the  friend  of  men  and  women, 
beloved  by  both.  Madame  de  Stael,  Madame  de 
Genlis,  Madame  de  Kriidner,  Madame  de  Swet- 
chine,  innumerable  other  mesdames,  were  extrava- 
gant in  their  praise  of  her.  Moreover,  it  is  a 
significant  fact,  that  which  has  been  observed 
before,  that  tlie  wives  of  her  admirers  spoke  no 
word  of  envy  or  detraction  against  her.  Some 
even  were  on  intimate  terms  with  her.  Madame 
de  Montmorency,  after  her  husband's  death,  gave 
her  own  letters  from  him  to  Madame  Recamier,  as  a 
mark  of  her  confidence  and  esteem.  And  Madame 
de  Chateaubriand,  whenever  Madame  Recamier 
was  reported  to  be  leaving  tov/n,  hastened  to  her, 
imploring  her  to  return  as  soon  as  possible.  "  What 
is  to  become  of  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand  ?  "  She 
would  inquire  anxiously.  "  What  is  he  going  to 
do  if  you  stay  away  long  ?  "  Thus  these  French 
wives  accepted  her,  courted  her.  Posterity  can 
only  wonder  — and  smile. 

It  was  reasons  of  friendship  that  drew  Madame 
Recamier  into  the  opposition  and  brought  upon  her 
the  ban  of  exile.  Before  the  execution  of  the 
Duke  d'  Enghein,  General  Moreau's  trial,  and  the 
persecution  of  Madame  de  Stael,  she  preserved  a 
neutral    attitude.      Fouche,  finding   her  beautiful 


242  MADAME  BECAMIER. 

and  charming  and  therefore  powerful,  conceived 
the  idea  of  attaching  her  to  the  government.  He 
wished  to  make  her  one  of  the  maids  of  honor. 
Madame  Recamier  excused  herself  on  the  plea  of 
her  shyness  and  her  love  of  independence.  Her 
refusal  angered  Fouche. 

This,  however,  did  not  happen  until  after  her 
meeting  with  Napoleon.  The  First  Consul  saw 
her  at  the  house  of  his  sister,  Madame  Bacciocchi, 
and  admired  her.  She  was  then  residing  outside 
of  Paris,  at  Clichy.  Lucien,  the  brother  of  the 
Consul,  was  at  that  time  foolishly,  hopelessly,  and 
passionately  in  love  witli  her.  He  also  was  at 
Madame  Bacciocchi's.  He  chanced  to  be  standing 
at  Madame  Recamier's  side.  The  Consul,  who  was 
in  Lucien's  secret,  noticed  them  together.  He 
passed  them  and,  as  he  did  so,  looking  meaningly 
at  Madame  Recamier,  he  took  occasion  to  whisper 
audibly  in  his  brother's  ear,  "  And  I,  too,  would  like 
to  go  to  Clichy."  At  dinner,  the  place  at  Napo- 
leon's left  had  been  intended  for  Madame  Reca- 
mier; but  through  a  misunderstanding  she  did  not 
take  it.  The  Second  Consul,  Cambac^res,  seated 
liimself  beside  her.  Napoleon,  observing,  declared 
loudly,  "  Ha !  Ha  I  citizen  Consul,  always  next  to 
the  most  beautiful."  After  dinner  he  accosted 
Madame  Recamier,  "  Why  did  you  not  take  the 
seat  next  to  me?"  he  inquired.  "I  should  not 
have  presumed,"  she  replied.  "  It  was  your  place," 
he  told  her. 


MADAME  r£CAMIER.  243 

Thus,  at  first,  Madame  Recaraier  enjoyed  Napo- 
leon's favor.  Later,  when  she  refused  to  serve  at 
his  court  and,  by  her  friendship  for  the  victims  of 
his  despotism,  allied  herself  with  the  opposition, 
he  turned  his  enmity  against  her. 

The  ministei-s  of  his  cabinet  and  visiting  princes 
were  obliged  to  make  their  calls  on  Madame 
R^camier  stealthily  so  as  to  escape  the  emperor's 
displeasure.  Once,  when  news  was  brought  him 
that  tliree  of  his  ministers  had  encountered  one 
another  by  chance  at  her  house,  he  inquired  with 
forbidding  irony,  "  How  long  is  it  since  the 
council  have  met  at  Madame  R^camier's  ?  "  And 
again,  when  she  lost  her  fortune  and  all  of  France 
extended  its  sympathy  to  her,  he  remarked  testily, 
"They  could  not  have  paid  more  honor  to  the 
widow  of  a  marehal  of  France  who  had  lost  her 
husband  on  the  field  of  battle." 

All  this  occurred  during  the  Empire.  But  at 
even  an  earlier  date,  under  the  Consulate,  Madame 
Recamier  had  been  made  to  feel  Napoleon's  power. 
Monsieur  Bernard,  her  father,  wlio  was  in  the  post- 
office  department,  was  compromised.  He  was 
imprisoned  at  Napoleon's  orders  and  threatened 
with  death.  Madame  Recamier  learned  this,  sud- 
denly, while  she  was  entertaining  friends  at  dinner. 
Madame  Bacciocchi,  the  sister  of  Napoleon,  was 
among  the  guests  present.  She  advised  Madame 
Recamier  to  see  Fouche  and  promised  that  she  her- 
self would  do  all  she  could  for  Monsieur  Bernard. 


244  MADAME   RECAMIER. 

Madame  Reeamier,  therefore,  attempted  an  inter- 
view with  Fouche ;  but  he  refused  to  receive  her, 
for  fear,  he  said,  of  being  influenced  by  her  in  an 
affair  of  state.  She  then  sought  Madame  Baccioc- 
chi  at  the  Theatre-Frangais.  Madame  Bacciocchi 
was  there,  occupying  a  box  with  her  sister  Pauline. 
There  was  a  gentleman  with  thon.  The  play  was 
Achilles  and  the  actor  Lafont.  Madame  Reeamier, 
troubled  and  agitated,  entered  the  box.  The  two 
sisters  seemed  not  to  notice  her  suffering. 
Madame  Bacciocchi  observed  indifferently  that  she 
wished  to  remain  until  the  end  of  the  tragedy,  and 
Pauline,  absorbed  in  the  play,  remarked  that  she 
thought  the  helmet  very  unbecoming  to  Lafont. 
At  this  the  gentleman,  General  Bernadotte  it  was, 
came  forward.  He  offered  to  escort  Madame 
Reeamier  to  her  home  and  then,  himself,  to  see 
Napoleon.  Thus  began  Bernadotte's  attachment 
to  Madame  Reeamier.  He  interceded  for  her,  and 
saved  her  father,  received  her  very  gracious  grati- 
tude and  became  thenceforth  one  of  her  most 
devoted  Romeos. 

This  instance  was  Madame  Recamier's  first  ex- 
perience of  Napoleon's  power.  Her  final  experience 
was  her  exile.  Upon  the  suppression  of  Madame 
de  Stael's  "Germany,"  Madame  Reeamier  deter- 
mined to  go  to  Coppet  and  pay  a  visit  of  sympathy 
to  her  sorrowing  friend.  She  was  counselled  not 
to  go.  She  was  told  that  she  could  do  her  friend 
no  good  and  that  she  would  only  be  bringing  mis- 


AtADAME  RiCAMIER  245 

fortune  upon  herself.  But  she  j)ersistc(h  What 
whe  inten(l('(l  doing  was  only  natural  and  right,  she 
said,  and  whatever  might  be  the  conse(|uences  she 
was  resolved  not  to  refuse  to  a  persecuted  woman 
this  mark  of  respect  and  affection.  She  went  to 
Coppet  and  embraced  Madame  de  Staiil  and  was, 
in  consequence,  banished  to  a  distance  of  forty 
leagues  from  Paris. 

Much  has  been  said  in  contempt  of  the  friend- 
ship of  women.  Yet  here  is  one  that  defies  carping 
criticism.  Madame  Recamier's  love  for  Madame 
de  Stael,  her  unselfish  devotion  to  her,  form  one 
of  the  pleasantest  chapters  in  the  lives  of  both. 
Madame  de  Stael,  on  her  part,  was  equally  loving. 
She  delighted  to  see  her  beautiful  Juliette 
admired  and  courted,  receiving  as  she  declared 
"the  worship  of  the  whole  of  Europe."  She 
regarded  her  as  the  chief  attraction  at  Coppet 
during  those  seasons  when  Madame  Recamier  made 
her  visits  there.  "  1  cannot  conceive  of  either 
country  or  home  life  without  you,"  she  once  told 
her,  "  Everything  falls  to  pieces  when  you  leave. 
You  are  the  sweet  and  tranquil  centre  of  our 
home." 

Perhaps  no  chapter  in  Madame  Recamier's  life 
is  more  pleasant,  more  gratifying,  than  this  one 
devoted  to  her  friendship  with  Madame  de  Stael. 
But  there  are  other  chaptei's  given  to  other  friends 
which  have  their  individual  importance  and  charm. 
We  might  say  of  these  other  chapters  that  they  are 


246  MADAME  RECAMIER. 

romantic  chapters.  One  is  found  entitled  Lucien, 
another  Bernadotte.  Then  follow  the  Montmo- 
rencies,  Prince  Augustus  of  Prussia,  Ballanche, 
Canova,  Benjamin  Constant,  and  last  and  chiefest, 
Chateaubriand. 

We  have  already  had  a  peep  into  those  that  treat 
of  Lucien  and  Bernadotte.  Next  in  order  are  the 
Montmorencies,  the  cousins  Matthieu  and  Adrien. 
Of  these,  Matthieu  was  the  saint.  He  was  Madame 
Recamier's  mentor.  He  reproved  her  for  her  friv- 
olity and  love  of  admiration  and  tried  to  direct  her 
thoughts  to  more  serious  things  and  especially  to 
heaven.  For  his  sake  she  gave  an  hour  every  clay 
to  meditation  and  religious  reading.  Adrien,  who 
became  Duke  de  Laval,  was  quite  different  from 
Matthieu.  He  was  less  of  a  saint  and  more  of  a 
wit.  He,  his  father,  and  later  his  son,  all  loved 
Madame  Recamier.  Thus  three  generations  ren- 
dered homage  to  her.  Adrien  used  frequently  to 
meet  his  son  at  Madame  Recamier's.  On  such 
occasions,  the  father  and  son,  rivals  pe?' force,  each 
endeavored,  as  the  vulgar  saying  is,  "  to  sit  the 
other  out."  It  was  the  younger  man  who  invari- 
ably persisted  longest,  and  the  duke  wrathfully 
took  his  departure.  Nevertheless,  the  humor  of 
the  situation  did  not  escape  the  duke,  and  he  wrote 
of  it  very  pleasantly  to  Madame  Recamier :  "  My 
son  is  enchanted  with  j^ou.  You  know  whether  or 
not  I  am.  It  is  the  same  with  all  the  Montmoren- 
cies.  We  do  not  die,  but  we  are  all  of  us  wounded." 


MADAME  RtCAMIER.  247 

Of  all  the  romantic  chapters  in  the  life  of  Mad- 
ame Recamier  assuredly  the  one  of  most  poetic 
glamor  is  that  with  Prince  Augustus  of  Prussia. 
It  had  for  its  setting  Coppet,  the  beautiful  shores 
of  Lake  Geneva,  and  the  mystic  grandeur  of  Mt. 
Blanc,  and  for  its  hero  a  brave  and  handsome  young 
prince.  Madame  Recamier  was  twenty-five  and 
the  prince  twenty-four  when  they  met  at  Coppet. 
He  was  immediately  her  captive,  "a  royal  prisoner." 
His  boyish  ardor,  his  earnestness,  his  perfect  sin- 
cerity touched  Madame  Recamier.  And  the  glory 
of  his  name  and  rank  and  valorous  deeds  appealed 
to  her  imagination.  The  prince,  who  was  a  Protes- 
tant, proposed  to  Madame  Recamier  that  she  should 
break  a  tie  that  had  never  been  anything  but  nom- 
inal and  marry  him.  Madame  Recamier  wavered. 
She  wrote  to  her  husband  asking  for  a  divorce.  She 
received  in  answer  a  tender,  fatherly,  dignified  letter. 
It  aroused  Madame  Recamier's  compassion  for  her 
husband.  Slie  pictured  liim  old  and  stripped  of  his 
fortune,  lonely  and  sad.  She  determined  not  to 
desert  him.  But  she  did  not  tell  Prince  Augustus 
of  her  decision.  She  could  not  bear  to  deprive  him 
of  all  hope  and  allowed  matters  with  him  to  drift 
on  in  sweet  and  poetic  uncertainty.  He  left  her 
dreaming  of  the  happiness  of  a  life  with  her,  believ- 
ing that  it  might  be  realized.  She  let  him  go  thus, 
thinking  that  time  and  absence  would  be  his  best 
helps  to  an  understanding  of  the  truth.  It  was  a 
naive  philosophy  and  one  that  has  called  forth  much 


248  MADAME  BECAMIER. 

criticism  of  Madame  Recamier.  One  wonders  if 
frankness  would  not  have  been  more  salutaiy  in 
the  end. 

Shortly  after  her  return  to  Paris,  she  sent  the 
prince  her  portrait.  He  sat  for  hours,  he  told  her, 
looking  at  "  the  enchanting  picture  "  and  thinking 
that  no  fate  could  be  comparable  to  that  of  the  man 
whom  she  would  love.  He  did  not  part  with  the 
portrait  until  his  death,  many  years  after.  Madame 
Recamier  had  also  presented  Mm  with  a  ring. 
Three  months  before  his  death  he  wrote  concerning 
it :  "  The  ring  that  you  gave  me  I  shall  carry  with 
me  to  the  tomb." 

After  the  chapter  with  Prince  Augustus,  the  next 
in  sequence  is  one  with  Ballanche.  Madame  Re- 
camier met  him  at  Lyons,  whither  she  went  in  her 
exile.  He  used  to  call  every  evening  and  chat  with 
her  tete-a-tete.  They  talked  of  his  work  and  of 
ethical  and  literary  subjects.  Shy  and  ugly,  the 
philosopher  had  never  met  with  such  tact  and 
kindness  as  that  which  he  received  from  Madame 
Recamier.  He  was  full  of  gratitude  and  admira- 
tion. He  became  to  her  an  ideal  sort  of  elder 
brother,  loving  her,  caring  for  her,  following  her 
everywhere  with  a  watchful  devotion.  It  was  he 
who  advised  her  to  translate  Petrarch.  More  to 
please  him  than  from  any  belief  in  her  own  ability 
she  began  the  work.  It  was  laid  aside  and  taken 
up  again  many  times.  She  died  before  it  was 
completed. 


MADAME  EECAMIER.  249 

When  Madame  Recamier  left  Lyons  for   Italy, 
Ballanche  visited  her  there.     Canova  made  a  third 
in  their  little  excursions.     And  with  Canova  we 
enter  upon  another  romantic  chapter.     Upon  her 
arrival  at  Rome  one  of   Madame  Recamier's  first 
calls  had  been  at  the  sculptor's  studio.     He,  who 
was  a   passionate  lover  of   beauty,  did  not  fail  to 
honor  it  in  Madame  Recamier.     During  the  sum- 
mer months,  wlien  residence   in  the  citj^  was  un- 
hcalthful,    Madame    Recamier    became    Canova's 
oruest   at   Albano.      There  her  room    looked    out 
upon  the  Campagna,  Pompey's  villa  surrounded  by 
trees,  a  vast  plain  of  waving  green  grass,  and,  as 
a  limit  of   all  this,  the  sea.     Every  morning   she 
walked  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Albano,  and  every 
Sunday  at  high  mass  and  vespers  she  played  the 
organ  in  the  little  church.     She  was   la  beUssima 
Zulieta   of   the   place.      While   she  was   in   Italy 
Madame    Recamier    visited   Naples.      When    she 
returned  to  Rome,  Canova  met  her  with  a  cordial 
and  affectionate  greeting  and  with  an  air  of  mystery 
as  well.     He  led  her  to  his  private  "  atelier  "  and 
drew  aside  a  curtain.     "  See  if  I  have  not  thought 
of  you,"  he  said.     Two  clay  busts  were  disclosed, 
bf)th  of  Madame  Recamier,  one  veiled  and  the  other 
unveiled. 

At  the  very  first  of  the  new  era  of  the  Restora- 
tion Madame  Recamier  left  Italy  and  returned  to 
Paris.  It  is  to  this  period  (1814-15)  that  the 
chapter   that   has  to  do  with  Benjamin   Constant 


250  MADAME  RECAMIEB. 

belongs.  The  king  and  queen  of  Italy,  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Murat,  friends  of  Madame  Recamier, 
desired  a  defender  of  their  rights  in  the  congress 
that  was  to  determine  the  new  balance  of  power. 
Madame  Recamier  bethought  her  of  Benjamin 
Constant  and  determined  to  interview  him  in 
behalf  of  the  Murats.  He  was  already  something 
of  an  old  friend.  She  had  known  him  for  ten 
years.  She  went,  intent  to  please  him,  and  she 
succeeded  only  too  well.  The  interview  was  the 
beginning  of  a  foolish  passion  on  the  part  of  Benja- 
min Constant  which  never  received  the  least  en- 
couragement. All  through  the  winter,  however, 
for  reasons  of  policy,  Madame  Recamier  saw  much 
of  "  the  publicist."  He  and  she  both  of  them 
occasionally  attended  Madame  Kriidner's  semi- 
social,  semi-spiritualistic  meetings.  Madame 
Recamier's  arrival  at  these  gatherings  was  thought 
to  divert  attention  from  the  solemn  business  of  the 
occasion.  Therefore  Constant  was  requested  to 
address  her  on  this  score.  The  note  that  resulted 
is  an  excellent  example  of  the  brilliant,  aerial  mind 
of  her  volatile  lover.  "  Madame  Kriidner  has  just 
charged  me  with  an  embarrassing  commission,"  he 
wrote.  "She  begs  that  you  will  make  your  ap- 
pearance with  as  few  charms  as  possible.  She 
says  that  you  dazzle  everybody  and  consequently 
all  hearts  are  disturbed,  attention  is  impossible. 
You  cannot  divest  yourself  of  your  beauty ;  but, 
prithee,  do  not  enhance  it." 


MADAME  U^CAMIER.  251 

With  tlie  exit  of  Benjamin  Constant  we  approach 
the  linal  romantic  chapter,  that  of  which  Chateau- 
briand is  the  hero.  Madame  Recamier  met 
Chateaubriand  first  at  tlie  house  of  Madame  de 
Stael  and  again  several  years  after,  near  the  time 
of  Madame  de  Stael's  deatli,  at  her  house  again. 
Her  intimate  friendsiiip  with  him,  however,  was 
not  until  the  days  at  the  Abbaye-aux-Bois. 

It  was  during  tlie  last  years  of  the  Restoration 
that  Madame  Recamier  met  with  her  second  reverse 
of  fortune  and  in  consequence  removed  to  the  little 
cell.  She  lived  there  for  six  months.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  the  nuns  ceded  to  her  a  suite  of  rooms 
on  the  first  floor  of  the  Abbaye,  and  there  she 
remained  until  very  shortly  before  her  death. 

During  the  time  of  her  residence  at  the  Abbaye- 
aux-Bois  Madame  Recamier  ceased  to  be  young. 
She  did  not  grow  old;  in  spite  of  the  years  she 
attained,  she  never  grew  old.  Her  heart  was  per- 
petually young,  perpetually  beautiful.  And 
though  the  passage  of  time  divested  her  somewhat 
of  her  charms,  she  submitted  herself  so  gracefully 
that  she  was  permitted  to  retain  more  than  she  lost. 
The  smile  was  always  the  same,  and  the  graceful 
carriage,  and  the  sweet,  charitable  manner.  Her 
coquetry,  too,  that  desire,  that  power  of  pleasing, 
remained  with  her.  It  had  developed  since  the 
days  of  her  youthful  flirtations.  It  never  wounded 
now  —  it  only  healed.  It  consisted  in  recognizing 
and  honoring  every  talent,  every  virtue,  every  dis- 


252  MADAME  RECAMIEE. 

tinction  and  in  addressing  itself  equally  to  the  most 
obscure  and  the  most  celebrated.  It  was  the  soul 
of  kindness  and  courtesy. 

Of  the  influence  that  Madame  Recamier  exerted 
at  this  time  Sainte  Beuve,  who  knew  her,  has 
written.  Hers  was  a  "benevolent"  power,  he 
said.  She  brought  "  the  art  of  friendship "  to 
perfection.  She  disarmed  anger,  sweetened  bitter- 
ness, and  banished  rudeness.  She  instituted  the 
reign  of  compassion  and  indulgence.  She  doctored 
the  faults  and  the  weaknesses  of  her  friends  as  she 
would  have  doctored  their  physical  infirmities. 
She  was,  Sainte  Beuve  concludes,  a  veritable 
"  Sister  of  Charity." 

She  admitted  many  to  her  fireside  and  to  her 
heart.  She  was  general  in  her  friendship.  Yet 
she  was  special,  too.  And  Chateaubriand  was  her 
specialty.  For  him  she  remained  in  the  city  and 
surrounded  herself  with  friends.  For  him  she 
devised  musical  entertainments,  readings  of  his 
own  works,  anything  that  would  amuse  him.  She 
brought  admirers  to  his  feet,  smiles  to  his  melan- 
choly countenance.  She  watched  his  face  and 
anticipated  his  every  wish.  She  flattered  his 
humors,  she  lightened  his  gloom,  she  filled  his  life. 

Every  day  at  half  past  two  she  received  him  in 
her  little  salon.  Together  they  drank  tea  and 
enjoyed  an  hour  of  tete-a-tete. 

The  years  went  by.  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand 
met  with  an  accident  that  crippled  him  for  life.  In 


MADAME  EECAMIEE.  253 

liis  journeys  to  tlie  Abbaye-aux-Bois  he  had  to  be 
carried  to  and  from  his  carriage.  Madame  Reca- 
mier  grew  ill,  her  eyesight  failed.  Yet  they  con- 
tinued to  meet  at  the  old  hour.  It  had  become  a 
necessity  with  them. 

When  his  wife  died,  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand 
asked  Madame  Recamier,  who  had  long  been  a 
widow,  to  honor  his  name  by  consenting  to  bear  it. 
But  Madame  Recamier  shook  her  head.  "  Let  us 
change  nothing  in  so  perfect  an  affection,"  she 
said.  And  to  her  friends  she  remarked,  "If  he 
were  married  to  me.  Monsieur  de  Chateaubriand 
would  miss  his  morning  call." 

Thus  the  final  chapter  draws  to  an  end,  and  it  is 
time  to  close  the  volume.  A  last  look  shows  us 
Madame  Recamier  in  her  cloistered  retreat.  Let 
us  take  leave  of  her  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
convent,  surrounded  by  the  friends  who  loved  her. 
Tier  life  had  been  long,  but  her  star  had  not  grown 
dim. 


MADAME   VALMORE. 


Born  at  Doiiai,  June  20,  1789. 
Died  in  Paris,  June  23, 1859, 


'  Sweet  spirit  with  the  golden  voice."  —  Brizeux. 

Amid  the  dust  and  defilement  of  the  city  this 
bird  of  plaintive  note  built  her  nest.  On  dizzy 
heights,  now  the  fifth  floor,  now  the  sixth  floor  of 
some  humble  lodging-house,  it  swung.  The  storms 
visited  it  and  buffetted  it  and  overturned  it,  and 
another  bough  as  dry  and  leafless  as  the  former 
was  sought,  and  the  nest  was  built  again.  Yet  the 
sunshine  found  it,  too ;  and  the  cries  of  the  unfortu- 
nate were  lifted  to  it,  never  in  vain. 

Within  the  little  nest  Madame  Valmore  worked 
and  loved  and  prayed.  And  she  sang,  too,  repeat- 
edly, inevitably.  She  sang  of  sad,  far-away  memo- 
ries, of  present  needs  and  present  pains,  of  the 
prisoner,  the  exile,  the  bereft.  She  sang  with  tears 
in  her  voice  and  grief  in  her  heart.  "  She  was," 
Sainte  Beuve  declares,  "  the  Mater  Dolorosa  of 
poetry." 

She  did  not  live  alone  in  the  little  nest.  She 
had  with  her  her  family,  four  dear  companions,  — 
Valmore,  her  husband,  who  was  honor  itself,  but 
who  vainly  sought  for  honest  and  congenial  em- 
ployment, and  three  children,  Hippolyte,  her  son, 

254 


MADAME    VALMORE. 
From  an  etching  by  Monzi^s. 


MADAME    VALMORE.  255 

and  Undine  and  Inez,  her  daughters.  Hippolyte 
was  a  good  boy.  His  fine  mind  and  his  straiglit- 
forwai-d  natnre  were  a  great  comfort  to  his  mother. 
Inez,  the  baby  of  the  family,  was  sensitive  and  shy, 
inelined  to  melancholy.  "-No  ehild,"  her  mother 
said,  "  ever  needed  so  much  caressing."  She  was 
frail,  too,  a  constant  anxiety  to  her  mother.  Sun- 
shine, fresh  air,  comfort,  pleasure,  were  what  she 
needed.  But  though  her  mother  worked  early  and 
late,  and  longed  with  all  her  heart  to  buy  them  for 
her,  they  could  not  be  bought.  The  child  grew 
every  year  more  delicate  and  spirit-like.  Undine 
was  only  occasionally  an  inmate  of  the  little  nest. 
She  was  assistant  teacher  in  a  boarding-school  at 
Chaillot,  and  could  pay  only  fleeting  visits  to  her 
home.  It  was  as  "  our  dear  learned  lady "  that 
Madame  Valmore  spoke  of  her.  She  came  and 
went  before  her  mother's  eyes  like  some  fair  vision 
not  wholly  realized  and  understood.  Small  of 
stature,  with  soft  blue  eyes,  regular  features,  and  a 
sweet  winning  smile,  there  was,  it  has  been  stated, 
something  angelic  in  her  appearance.  She  was  a 
poet  like  her  mother,  and  lived  in  a  world  of  dreams 
and  pure  and  lofty  thoughts.  But  she  was 
reserved  and  undemonstrative.  Her  reticence 
troubled  her  mother.  Madame  Valmore,  who 
opened  her  heart  so  freely  to  all  who  loved  her, 
experienced  an  affectionate  alarm  when  her 
daughter's  confidence  was  withheld  from  her.  But 
she    did   not   question    Undine    unduly.     She    re- 


256  MADAME   VALMORE. 

spected  her  silence.  She  was  always  considerate 
of  the  wishes  of  her  children.  "  These  sensitive 
young  souls  need  either  happiness  or  the  dream 
of  it,"  she  said,  "  and  should  be  fed  from  the  first 
on  unalterable  indulgence." 

For  herself  she  had  ceased  to  ask  for  liappiness. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  she  sighed  for  rest  and  the 
modest  luxury  of  an  apartment  on  the  second  floor. 
But  oftener  she  spoke  of  her  supports  and  com- 
forts, —  the  daylight,  faith  in  God,  the  love  of  her 
dear  ones,  and  the  hope  of  seeing  again  those  who 
had  "  gone  before  her."  The  truth  was  she  no 
longer  expected  or  desired  happiness  save  that  of 
others. 

Her  days  from  eight  o'clock  till  midnight  were 
filled  with  work,  letters,  housekeeping,  sewing, 
visitors.  She  made  her  life,  she  declared,  as  she 
sewed,  patiently,  "  stitch  by  stitch."  She  did  what 
she  could  for  the  maintenance  of  her  poor  little 
home.  She  labored  "  with  all  her  might."  Yet 
when  they  came  asking  her  to  write  stories  for 
papers  and  periodicals,  she  shook  her  head.  "  I 
cannot  write,"  she  said.  "  My  thoughts  are  too 
serious,  m}^  heart  too  full.  I  always  write  from 
the  heart,  and  mine  bleeds  too  much  for  pretty, 
childish  fancies." 

People,  charmed  by  her  plaintive  bird-notes, 
climbed  to  her  attic  heights  to  visit  her.  They 
came,  litterateurs,  and  now  and  then  a  stray  prince 
or  princess.     ]\Iadame  Valmore  received  them  with 


MADAME   VALMOHE.  257 

ease  and  grace  and  hospitality.  She  surrounded 
herself  with  an  artistic  poverty,  made  light  of  her 
too  apparent  needs,  and  hid  her  sorrows  under  a 
gallant  bearing.  Slie  who  was  so  modest  and  sen- 
sitive a  poet  was  also  proud  and  brave. 

The  rich  man  came  to  tell  her  of  his  troubles. 
The  house  that  he  was  building  was  to  have  cost  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  he  said,  and  the  plans 
were  mounting  up  to  twice  that  sum,  which,  to- 
gether with  the  cost  of  his  son's  education,  was 
enough  to  drive  him  mad.  Madame  was  forced  to 
pity  him.  Yet  she  smiled  to  herself  ironically  as 
she  listened.  "  What  can  you  say  to  such  a  child 
of  fortune  ?  "  she  inquired  of  a  friend.  "  That  you 
have  but  two  chemises  and  no  tablecloths  ?  "  He 
would  reply,  "  Ah,  how  fortunate  you  are  !  Then 
you  will  not  think  of  building." 

Two  noble  ladies  came  to  take  her  for  a  drive. 
They  cast  a  glance  of  scrutiny  about  the  narrow 
quarters.  "  Madame  Valmore  has  everything  so 
pretty  around  her,"  they  remarked.  And  Madame 
Valmore,  while  she  thanked  them  for  their  compli- 
ment, thought  of  the  one  franc  lying  in  her  bureau 
drawer,  which  was  all  she  had  saved  toward  the 
monthly  wages  of  "  the  fierce  Victoire."  She  could 
not  go  with  the  great  ladies  to  drive.  She  must 
stay  at  home  and  work.  But  for  excuse  she  only 
said  that  she  was  ill.  Thus,  as  in  the  days  of  her 
dramatic  career,  she  hid  her  tears  beneath  the 
jester's  mask. 


258  MADAME  VALMORE. 

Her  lot  was  cast  in  the  shadow,  away  from  the 
pleasures  of  the  world.  She  did  not  know  hap- 
piness. She  had  never  known  it.  Of  herself  she 
said  tliat  she  "  slipped  sorrowfully  into  the  world." 

There  is  something  very  sad,  very  sweet,  and 
very  affecting  about  Madame  Valmore's  first  mem- 
ories and  her  early  home  at  Douai.  In  that  town, 
so  quaint,  so  historic,  so  picturesque,  so  permeated 
with  Flemish  and  Spanish  influences,  while  the  bells 
were  ringing  in  the  Revolution,  near  to  a  grave- 
yard and  a  ruined  church  on  the  Rue  Notre  Dame, 
Madame  Valmore  was  born.  She  played  among 
the  tombstones  and  the  fallen  statues  of  the  saints  ; 
she  gathered  the  roses  that  grew  wild  along  the 
ancient  aisles  and  cloisters  ;  she  gazed  upon  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Christ,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
eyes  looked  down  on  her  in  pity. 

The  little  Marceline,  as  she  was  called,  could 
not  remember  ever  having  been  anything  but  poor. 
Her  brother  Felix,  however,  and  her  sisters  Cecile 
and  Eugenie,  who  were  older  than  she,  were  able 
to  think  back  to  a  time  before  the  Revolution, 
when  the  church  was  still  standing  and  when  there 
was  plenty  in  their  home.  Then  there  father  had 
been  an  armorial  painter.  But  in  the  days  that 
followed,  wlien  royalty  was  swept  away,  his  occu- 
pation vanished.  To  be  sure  there  were  wealthy 
Protestant  uncles  in  Flanders  who  promised  busi- 
ness opportunities  and  preferment  if  they  would 
but  change  their  faith.     But  the  family  in  the  Rue 


MADAME  VALMOBE.  259 

Notre  Dame  were  devout  Catholics.  They 
remained  loyal  and  poor. 

When  Marceline  was  ten  years  old  she  went 
with  her  mother  to  Guadeloupe,  whither  they  had 
been  invited  by  a  relative  who  had  amassed  a  for- 
tune. They  had  not  been  there  long  when  the 
mother  caught  the  yellow  fever,  which  was  raging 
there,  and  died.  The  relative  was  already  dead  of 
the  fever.  Marceline  was  quite  alone.  She  was 
befriended  by  the  wife  of  a  ship  owner,  Madame 
Geudon.  When  she  was  fourteen  she  took  pas- 
sage on  a  ship  of  Madame  Geudon's  husband  that 
was  sailing  for  France.  On  her  way  she  encount- 
ered a  storm.  She  persuaded  the  sailors  to  let  her 
remain  on  deck  while  it  was  raging,  and,  tightly 
wrapped  in  the  shrouds,  she  watched  the  battle 
with  the  waves.  The  fierce  beauty  of  the  scene 
appealed  to  her  dramatic  and  poetic  nature.  She 
faced  it  with  that  same  dauntless  spirit  with  which 
she  was  to  face  all  the  later  conflicts  of  her 
life. 

On  her  landing  in  France,  Marceline  was  met 
with  the  news  that  her  family  was  destitute.  It 
was  then  that  she  became  an  actress.  Young, 
small,  innocent-looking,  without  mannerisms  or 
affectations,  quick,  simple,  and  intelligent,  she 
stepped  naturally  into  the  ingenuous  parts  (ingenu- 
ites).  She  attracted  considerable  attention  in  the 
little  stage  world,  and  Gretry,  of  the  Opera  Com- 
ique,  seeing  her  and  observing  the  proud  humility 


260  MADAME    VALMOUE. 

with  which  she  bore  herself,  referred  to  her  always 
as  "the  little  dethroned  queen." 

The  little  dethroned  queen  dwelt  in  a  castle  close 
against  the  sky,  an  apartment  under  the  roof.  Her 
only  retainer  was  a  humble  dressing  maid  of  the 
same  theatre  as  herself,  and  her  friend  as  well. 
She  studied  much  and  ate  little.  One  day,  after 
too  long  a  fast,  she  was  found  in  a  faint  at  the 
foot  of  her  stairway.  Poor  child,  she  was  experi- 
encing suffering  in  a  way  tliat  refined  her  art,  but 
left  its  blight  forever  on  her  life. 

However,  she  was  at  that  youthful  age  when 
even  rags  are  becoming,  and  when  the  heart,  in 
spite  of  its  aching,  will  rejoice.  She  had  her  laughs 
as  well  as  her  cries.  She  and  her  poor  companion, 
the  dressing  maid,  living  sparingly  like  two  little 
birds,  used  to  share  their  few  crumbs  with  an  occa- 
sional visitor.  Once,  when  all  the  crumbs  were 
gone,  a  big  man  with  a  very  big  appetite  came  to 
call.  He  talked  eloquently  of  art,  music,  the 
drama,  until  he  was  tired,  but  no  dinner  appeared. 
At  length,  with  the  piteous  gesture  of  a  man  faint 
for  food,  "  Oh,  my  children,"  he  cried.  "  No  mat- 
ter what!  Anything!  A  large  piece  of  bread! 
That  surely  cannot  incommode  you  !  " 

From  Rouen  to  Brussels  Mademoiselle  Marce- 
line  travelled,  to  the  Odeon,  and  back  again  to 
Brussels  and  Rouen.  Her  wandering  habit,  Avhich 
was  formed  not  of  desire,  but  of  necessity,  began 
in  this  season  of  her  theatrical  career.     She  made 


MADAME   VALMORE.  '261 

various  debuts  in  the  parts  of  "  Julie  "  in  the  "  Pot 
de  Fleurs  "  and  "  Eulalie  "  in  ''  Misantlnxjpy  and 
Repentance."  At  the  Opera  Comique  she  sang 
with  a  thrilling,  sympathetic  voice.  She  was 
especially  successful  in  the  pathetic  parts.  She 
brought  tears  to  many  eyes,  even  to  the  eyes  of  a 
certain  malicious  critic  who  went  to  ridicule  and 
remained  to  applaud. 

She  was  also  effective  in  the  comic  parts.  But 
these  were  an  effort  to  her.  It  was  difficult  for 
her  to  rep)ress  all  feeling  and  to  become  merely  a 
pretty,  smiling  puppet.  While  she  danced  and 
sang  and  performed  her  amusing  little  antics,  she 
lamented  thus  to  herself : 

"  In  the  vain  shows  wliere  wit  doth  win  applause, 
Hushed  lies  tlie  heart  and  hidden  : 
To  please  hecomes  the  first  of  laws; 
To  love  is  aye  forbidden." 

She  began  to  weary  of  the  "  jester's  crown,"  and 
to  desire,  as  she  expressed  it,  "  the  sweet  names  of 
wife  and  mother."  In  April,  1817,  when  she  was 
twenty  years  old,  she  married  Monsieur  Valmore, 
who  was  of  the  same  theatre  as  herself,  and  who 
loved  her  deeply  and  ardently.  For  a  few  years 
she  and  her  husband  acted  together.  Then  she 
retired  from  the  stage. 

Meanwhile  she  had  lost  her  singing  voice.  But 
she  still  heard  the  music  in  her  brain.  It  was 
"  turning  to  poetry  within  her,"  Sainte  Beuve  ex- 


262  MADAME   VALMORE. 

plains.  In  1817  she  publislied  her  fii'st  volume  of 
verse.  A  second  and  third  edition  appeared  in 
1820  and  1822.  They  aroused  interest  and  ad- 
miration. It  was  not  until  1821-27,  however,  that 
her  reputation  as  a  poet  was  established.  From 
that  time  on  she  wrote  with  increasing  skill  and 
with  a  full  development  of  her  warm,  sympathetic 
genius.  Sensibility  was  her  domain.  Her  strains 
were  always  sad  and  tender.  '^  She  had,"  said 
]\Iichelet,  "  the  gift  of  tears,  that  gift  which  smites 
the  rock  and  dissipates  the  drought  of  the  soul." 
And  Sophie  Gaj-,  quoting  some  of  her  verse,  de- 
clared that  it  possessed  the  melancholy  charm 
which  Monsieur  de  Segur  called  the  "luxury  of 
grief."  There  was  nothing  original,  nothing  start- 
ling in  the  poetry  of  jNIadame  Valraore.  It  was  just 
sweet  and  delicate  and  feminme,  as  frank  and  artless 
as  the  poet  who  wrote  it.     In  truth  it  was  herself. 

Madame  Valmore  and  her  poetry  were  one.  But 
her  life,  her  exterior  life  that  is,  was  very  different. 
It  was  a  long  wandering  from  lodging-house  to 
lodging-house,  a  hard  fight  for  the  necessities  of 
existence.  A  pension  had  been  granted  her.  She, 
sensitive  and  proud,  had  accepted  it  with  extreme 
reluctance.  She  spent  much  of  it  in  charity,  seek- 
ing always  "•  to  justify  and  purify  "  the  money  in 
her  eyes.  The  pension  relieved  the  situation,  but 
after  years  of  forced  inactivity,  when  arrears  had 
accumulated  into  debts,  total  recovery  was  not 
possible.     The  struggle  still  continued. 


MADAME    VALMORE.  263 

Madame  Valmore  noted  with  pain  the  effects  of 
the  struggle  on  herself  and  her  family.  "  The 
rigors  of  fate  too  much  prolonged,"  she  said,  "  are 
as  fatal  to  the  mind  as  too  much  luxury.  When 
it  becomes  necessary  to  work  hard  in  order  to 
escape  absolute  indigence,  the  wings  of  the  soul 
are  folded,  and  soaring  is  postponed  to  a  future  day." 

Money  difficulties  were  not  JMadame  Valmore's 
only  trouble.  One  by  one  she  lost  her  dear  ones, 
her  brother,  her  sisters,  her  friends.  At  length 
death  struck  at  her  children,  at  little  Inez  grown 
to  womanhood,  and  later  at  Undine,  the  beautiful 
and  good  and  learned.  Then  in  anguish  she  cried, 
"  It  is  frightful,  frightful  to  see  the  young  die  and 
to  be  left  behind  !  "  She  felt  lost,  abandoned.  For 
the  first  time  her  religion,  her  childlike  faith,  fal- 
tered. "  I  cannot  always  feel  the  angels  sustaining 
me,"  she  said. 

But  this  was  only  for  a  moment.  She,  who  was 
so  afflicted,  never  despaired.  The  angels  returned 
to  her.  She  prayed  to  them  as  she  prayed  to  God 
and  the  Virgin.  Hers  was  an  individual,  an  inde- 
pendent faith.  She  never  attended  service.  She 
visited  church  only  when  it  was  empty.  She 
desired  no  priest  to  intercede  for  her.  She  spoke 
direct  to  heaven.  For  this  she  was  criticised.  Yet 
no  one  was  more  intensely  religious.  She  was 
always  in  the  presence  of  God,  Christ,  the  Virgin, 
and  the  dear  departed.  They  were  more  real  to  her, 
more  near  to  her  than  the  affairs  of  the  world. 


264  MADAME   VALMORE. 

Thus  she  lived  close  to  Heaven,  and  caught  some- 
what the  spirit  of  that  neighborhood.  She  brought 
into  her  own  atmosphere,  so  dingy  and  dusty  and 
gray,  a  bit  of  the  blue.  What  little  money  she  had 
she  shared  with  those  who  had  less, — with  her 
brother  in  the  hospital  at  Douai  and  her  sisters  at 
Rouen,  or  some  hungry  actor  or  shivering  poet. 
And  when  she  had  no  money  to  bestow  she  was 
always  ready  with  consoling  words.  She  who  had 
experienced  so  much  suffering  knew  well  how  to 
compassionate  the  suffering  of  others.  It  was  a 
theory  of  hers  that  the  poor  should  help  one 
another  and  ask  no  favors  of  the  rich.  "  The  rich 
cannot  understand,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  not  speak 
of  them  except  to  rejoice  that  they  do  not  suffer  as 
we  do."  "  Give  until  death,"  was  lier  motto,  and 
she  gave  freely  and  at  all  times  of  her  purse,  of  her 
sympathy,  and  of  her  gift  of  song. 

Meanwhile,  she  continued  her  wanderings,  but 
found  now  and  then  in  the  midst  of  the  desert  an 
occasional  oasis.  Such  was  her  visit  to  Milan. 
Her  husband  liad  been  summoned  thither  as  one  of 
a  troupe  engaged  to  perform  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  Emperor  Ferdinand.  Madame  Valmore  and 
her  two  daughters  went  with  him.  The  engage- 
ment amounted  to  nothing,  but  the  little  family 
were  afforded  a  glimpse  of  a  romantic  realm.  The 
sunshine  of  the  South  brought  a  note  of  gladness  to 
the  sad  voice  of  Madame  Valmore.  She  sat  beside 
her  casement,  whose  only  curtain   was    a  verdant 


MADAME   VALMOItE.  265 

plane-tree,  and  with  her  famil}^  "alone,  in  poor  dis- 
guise," as  she  expressed  it,  she  roamed  "  the  grand 
Italian  land."  She  breatlied  a  warmth,  she  beheld 
a  beauty  that  were  free  to  all.  Again,  shortly  after 
her  journey  to  Italy  and  during  the  first  of  her  res- 
idence in  Paris,  Madame  Valmore  visited  Flanders 
with  her  husband.  She  enjoyed  the  merry  Flemish 
holidays,  and  frequented  the  art  galleries  where 
black-robed  virgins  and  portraits  by  Rubens  and 
the  head  of  the  Laocoiin  filled  her  with  an  "  inex- 
pressible adoration." 

On  all  such  occasions  Madame  Valmore 's  heart 
responded  ardently  to  the  influence  of  culture  and 
refinement.  Her  imagination  was  easily  roused, 
her  mind  quickly  diverted.  "Oh,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  what  a  happy  place  this  world  is  to  one  who  pos- 
sesses the  faculty  of  admiration,  at  once  the  hum- 
blest and  the  proudest  of  all.  It  consoles  one  for 
all  sorts  of  miseries,  and  gives  wings  to  poverty, 
enabling  it  to  soar  above  disdainful  wealth !  " 

All  that  she  needed,  this  woman  of  exquisite 
taste  and  sentiment,  was  a  little  space  for  reflection 
and  study.  Yet  this  was  seldom  granted.  "I 
should  have  revelled  in  a  study  of  the  poets  and 
poetry,"  she  once  said,  "  but  have  been  fain  to  be 
content  Avith  dreaming  of  this  as  of  the  other  good 
things  of  the  world."  And  when  at  last  the  rare 
opportunity  was  offered  and  she  was  permitted  to 
read,  it  was  with  an  admiration  so  profound  that 
she  quite  forgot  herself,  or  if  for  a  moment  she 


266  MADAME   VALMOEE. 

remembered  her  own  talent,  it  was  to  say,  "The 
more  I  read  the  less  I  dare  to  write.  I  am  smitten 
with  terror.     I  am  like  a  glow-worm  in  the  sun." 

She  was  very  modest  as  to  her  own  productions 
and  grateful  for  honest  criticism.  Monsieur 
Latour,  poet  and  professor,  was  her  friend,  and  a 
literary  adviser  kind  and  affectionate.  She  ap- 
pealed to  him  with  characteristic  humility,  asking 
for  light.  He  pointed  out  certain  faults  of  expres- 
sion, of  carelessness  and  weakness,  but  found 
miifh  to  love  and  praise  and  pity  in  her  verse. 
Shu  thanked  him,  and  by  her  sincerity,  as  she  said, 
merited  "  that  rarest  of  favors,  truth." 

Monsieur  Latour  was  not  the  only  denizen  from 
the  literary  world  who  honored  Madame  Valmore 
with  his  friendship.  There  was  also  Lamartine, 
with  whom  she  exchanged  complimentary  verses 
and  letters  ;  and  Raspail,  whom  she  hailed  as  "Dear 
Socrates,"  "  Charming  Stoic,"  and  to  whom  she 
dedicated  her  pathetic  plea,  "  Les  Prisones  et  Les 
Prieres ;"  and  Brizeux,  the  Breton  Virgil,  of  so 
strange,  so  flighty,  so  evanescent  a  character.  Then, 
too,  Beranger,  Hugo,  Vigny,  Alexander  Dumas,  all 
paid  their  respects  to  her  at  one  time  or  another. 
Though  her  star  shone  so  obscurely  and  with  so 
mild  a  light,  it  did  not  pass  unseen,  but  was 
recognized  and  awarded  its  meed  of  appreciation 
and  admiration. 

Her  husband,  too,  after  long  years  of  waiting 
and  earnest  endeavor,  found  his  place  at  last.     He 


MAUAiME    VALMORE.  267 

obtained,  in  September,  1852,  lionorable  and  con- 
genial einployment  as  editor  of  "  Tlie  Catalogue  " 
in  the  Ini[)erial  Library.  Mis  appointment  brought 
"sacred  content,"  it  is  said,  to  the  members  of  the 
humble  household  so  perpetually  and  so  sorely 
tried. 

Already  there  had  been  a  slight  lifting  of  the 
clouds,  a  temporary  period  of  cessation  from  suffer- 
ing, of  happiness  and  rejoicing.  In  January,  1851, 
Undine  was  married.  She  went  to  the  country,  to 
the  estate  of  her  husband,  Monsieur  LangI  is,' 
at  Saint  Denis  D'Anjon,  and  Madame  Valmore 
visited  her  there.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  this 
mother  and  daughter  enjoyed  peace  and  freedom. 
It  was  pleasant  to  live,  they  found,  away  from  the 
ringing  of  bells  and  literary  and  political  wran- 
gling. They  rode  on  donkeys,  they  strayed  pur- 
poselessly through  the  meadows,  they  translated 
Horace,  they  gathered  fruits  and  flowers,  they 
breathed  the  scent  of  growing  things  and  listened 
to  talk  of  the  vintage,  the  wheat  crop,  and  "  hens 
who  lay  continually."  For  the  first  time  they  ex- 
perienced protracted  sunshine  and  an  easy  life. 

Yet,  as  the  months  passed,  it  became  evident 
that  these  benefits  had  come  to  Undine  too  late. 
Madame  Valmore  regarded  her  child  anxiously  and 
apprehensively.  "  Her  countenance  is  so  change- 
ful," she  wrote  to  Hippolyte.  "  She  has  so  strange 
an  appetite  and  such  a  horror  of  walking.  She  is 
so  shy  even  in  her  confidences.     It  is    as    if  her 


268  MADAME    VALMORE. 

heart  were  the  home  of  thousands  of  birds  who  do 
not  sing  in  concert,  but  fear  and  shun  one  another. 
She  is  always  gentle,  but  so  easily  agitated." 

It  was  the  poison  taking  effect.  The  sunshine 
of  a  few  months  could  not  heal  a  weakness  that 
was  the  result  of  the  toil  and  privation  of  years. 
Her  mother's  watchful  care,  her  husband's  love, 
her  baby's  sweet  dependence  could  not  keep  her. 
She  died  in  February,  1853. 

It  was  then  that  Madame  Valmore  entered  the 
region  of  impenetrable  shadows  and  became  in 
very  truth  the  "  Mother  of  Sorrows."  "  I  dare  not 
write,"  she  said,  "  for  I  cannot  lie,  and  the  tale  is 
too  sad  to  tell."  Nevertheless,  from  out  the  dark- 
ness her  voice  still  sounded  submissive,  clear,  and 
undespairing,  She  had  even  yet  at  her  command 
words  of  comfort  and  cheer.  If  she  was  the  Mater 
Dolorosa  of  poetry,  she  was,  to  quote  Raspail,  its 
"good  fairy,"  too.  The  tenth  muse,  he  called  her, 
the  muse  of  virtue. 

She  who  had  always  been  so  poor  left,  when  she 
died,  no  fortune  to  her  son.  She  could  bequeath 
him  only  a  name.  Yet  many  fortunes,  said  one 
who  knew  her,  might  be  given  in  exchange  for 
such  a  patent  of  nobility. 

Her  tale,  sad  as  the  one  she  could  not  tell,  has  yet 
the  breath  of  hope  and  consolation.  It  is  a  mes- 
sage, a  word  of  wisdom,  to  all  who  suffer  and  must 
not  despair. 


MADAME  DE  R^MUSAT. 


Born  at  Paris,  Jan.  5,  1780. 
Died  at  Lille,  Dec.  16,  1821. 


"  She  was  probably  the  woman  (and  consider  what  a  blending 
of  seriousness  and  grace  this  circumstance  implies)  with  whom 
Napoleon  and  Talleyrand  liked  best  to  talk."  —  Sainte  Beuve. 

The  court  was  at  Fontaiiiebleau.  There  were 
gathered  princes,  electors,  marshals,  chamberlains, 
foreigners  of  distinction.  Fear  of  the  emperor 
and  strict  etiquette  kept  them  cautious  and 
restrained.  One  could  not  say  that  there  was 
gaiety  among  them.  Yet  none  of  the  symbols  of 
gaiety  were  lacking.  People  danced,  they  played 
at  chess  and  cards,  they  acted  tragedies,  they  sang, 
they  feasted,  they  hunted,  they  smiled,  they 
laughed,  they  talked.  Now  and  then,  even,  they 
abandoned  themselves  to  a  game  of  blind-man's- 
buff.  They  sought  to  assume  the  lightness  and 
carelessness  of  children. 

Among  the  illustrious  personages  who  comprised 
this  court  was  a  woman  who  had  attained  a  repu- 
tation for  cleverness.  She  was  known  as  Madame 
de  Remusat.  Early  in  her  court  life  she  had 
spoken  the  name  Shakspeare ;  she  had  defended  the 
English    author    to    Napoleon.      Bonaparte    had 

269 


2T0  MADAME  DE  REMUSAT. 

turned  upon  her  with  a  start.  "  Diablo  !  "  he  had 
exclaimed.  "You  are  a  savant!"  The  listening 
audience  had  regarded  her  curiously.  Thereafter 
she  had  talked  only  idle  talk  or  she  had  held  her 
tongue.  Yet  the  name  stuck.  She  was  a  "savant." 
Madame  herself  was  amused  at  her  title.  She 
thought  she  had  won  her  reputation  rather  too 
easily. 

She  was  not  a  beauty,  this  clever  woman,  but  she 
was  attractive.  A  pen  and  ink  portrait  of  the  time, 
done  by  an  able  hand,  presents  her  to  us.  Her 
figure,  it  is  said,  was  good ;  her  carriage  graceful 
and  unaffected.  Her  features  were  not  at  all 
remarkable,  but  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  teeth  were 
beautiful.  Moreover,  she  was  blessed  with  dim- 
ples. Her  smile,  therefore,  was  "  sweet "  and  "  arch." 
Her  face  expressed  "  tenderness,  vivacity,  quick  per- 
ception, a  vivid  imagination,  and  exquisite  sensi- 
bility." Such,  then,  Avas  Madame  de  Remusat  as 
she  appeared  at  court,  Madame  de  Remusat,  Lady- 
in-waiting  to  the  Empress  Josephine. 

One  evening  Madame  de  Remusat  sat  at  the 
piano  in  the  palace  of  Fontainebleau  playing  Italian 
dance  music.  The  whole  court  passed  before  her. 
She  knew  them  all  —  knew  them  even  to  their 
interests,  their  passions,  tlieir  intrigues,  and  their 
weaknesses.  They  seemed  happy,  free  from 
responsibility  and  anxiety.  Yet,  she  meditated, 
they  had  each  in  turn  a  favor  to  ask,  justice  to 
demand,  or  some  business  of  importance  to  trans- 


MADA.\fE   DE  liEMUSAT.  271 

act.  Tliey  were  behaving  like  children,  while,  in 
reality,  their  desires  and  their  wills  were  those  of 
men.  Tliey  dared  not  show  themselves.  They 
were  reduced  to  insignificance. 

These  thoughts  were  in  her  mind  wlien,  a 
moment  later,  the  dance  at  an  end,  she  rose  from 
her  seat  at  the  piano.  Talleyrand  was  at  her  side. 
The  clever  diplomat  admired  this  clever  woman 
and  liked  to  find  himself  in  her  society.  He  spoke 
to  her  of  some  matter  of  importance  in  which  he 
was  intimately  concerned.  He  spoke  with  his 
usual  calm  indifference.  Madame  de  Remusat 
regarded  him  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  her 
thoughts  demanding  expression,  and  her  face  elo- 
quent witli  her  own  earnestness,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Mon  Dieu,  how  is  it  possible  that  you  can  live 
and  work  without  experiencing  any  emotion  ?  " 

He  smiled  upon  her,  and  began  to  mock  her  as 
he  mocked  every  one.  "  Ah,  what  a  woman  you 
are,  and  how  young  !"  he  observed. 

Once  this  might  have  made  her  angry.  Now 
his  ridicule  only  amused  her.  She  pitied  more 
than  she  censured  his  hardness  of  heart.  He  had 
told  her  of  his  unfortunate  youth,  and  she,  who 
was  so  happy  in  her  private  life,  was  full  of  sym- 
pathy for  him.  Now  and  then,  moreover,  she  had 
touched  a  chord  in  his  nature,  which  told  her  that 
he  had  a  soul,  though  it  slept. 

"  Oh,"  she  declared,  "  what  a  pity  it  is  that  you 
have  to  take  such  pains  to  spoil  yourself.     I  can- 


272  MADAME   BE   BEMUSAT. 

not  help  believing  that  the  real  you  is  better  than 
you  are." 

Later  in  the  evening  it  was  Napoleon  who  was 
at  Madame  de  Remusat's  side.  He  had  recently  re- 
stored lands  and  revenue  to  some  Royalist  friends 
of  hers,  two  young  women  whose  father  had  been 
a  duke  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XVI.  Madame 
assured  Bonaparte  of  their  gratitude. 

The  emperor  sneered.  "  Ouf ! "  he  declared. 
"  Gratitude !  That  is  a  poetic  word.  It  has  no 
■meanmg  in  the  political  world.  These  friends  of 
yours,  who  are  grateful  to  me  to-day,  would  rejoice 
to-morrow  if  some  Royalist  should  assassinate  me." 

Madame  opened  her  eyes,  surprised,  incredu- 
lous. 

Napoleon  observed  her  expression.  "You  are 
young,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  know  what  party 
hatred  is.  It  is  like  a  pair  of  spectacles  —  one  sees 
everybody,  every  opinion,  every  sentiment  through 
the  glass  of  one's  own  passions." 

Madame  pondered  a  moment.  She  was  one  of 
the  few  ladies  of  the  court  who  comprehended  the 
conversation  of  the  em[)eror  and  dared  to  answer 
him  in  sometliing  more  than  monosyllables.  "  But," 
she  demurred,  "  if  you  deny  the  existence  of  grati- 
tude in  your  universe,  for  what  reason  do  you 
seek  to  win  applause  ?  Why  do  you  spend  your 
life  in  great  and  perilous  enterprises  ?  " 

"  One  cannot  avoid  one's  destiny,"  he  answered. 
"  He  who  is  called  cannot  resist.     Besides,  human 


MADAM  K  DE  REM  US  AT.  273 

pride  finds  the  public  it  desires  in  the  ideal  world 
which  is  called  posterity." 

Madame  listened  attentively.  She  was  inter- 
ested, but  not  convinced.  She  regarded  the 
emperor  questioningly.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
understand,"  slie  declared,*^'  how  a  man  can  expose 
himself  to  every  sort  of  danger  for  posterity's  sake 
merely,  while  in  his  heart  he  despises  the  men  of 
his  time." 

At  this  Bonaparte  spoke  up  quickly.  "  I  do  not 
despise  men,  madame,"  he  protested.  "  That  is  i. 
thing  you  must  not  say.  I  do  not  despise  men,  and 
1  particularly  esteem  the  French." 

At  his  abruptness  Madame  de  Remusat  could 
not  repress  a  smile.  It  was  as  though,  having  for- 
gotten himself  a  moment,  he  had  expressed  himself 
too  frankly,  and  suddenly  bethought  him  of  the 
proper  thing  to  say. 

He  saw  the  smile,  guessed  its  meaning,  and 
answered  it.  He  liked  to  be  understood.  He 
drew  near  and  pulled  her  ear.  The  act  did  not 
surprise  madame  ;  she  knew  it  meant  that  he  was 
in  a  good  humor  —  therefore,  she  did  not  draw 
away,  but  received  it  like  a  courtier,  smiling  still. 
"Mind,  madame,"  he  repeated,  lifting  a  warning 
finger,  "you  must  never  say  tliat  I  despise  the 
French." 

When  next  she  was  alone  with  her  husband, 
Madame  de  Remusat  drew  a  long  sigh.  Monsieur 
de  Remusat  asked  her  what  it   meant.      Then    she 


274  MADAME  DE  B  EMUS  AT. 

expressed  to  him  the  feeling  of  oppression  which 
all  this  cynicism  gave  her.  Life  at  court  was 
brilliant,  but  so  unsatisfactory, she  declared;  there 
was  no  pleasure  in  it.  She  lifted  her  glance  to  her 
husband.  Her  dimples,  showing,  gave  to  her  face 
that  "  sweet  and  arch  "  expression  that  so  became 
her.  "  Indeed,"  she  said,  "  the  only  pleasure  I 
have  ever  found  has  been  in  our  own  home  with  you 
and  mother  and  the  boys." 

Tliis  was  Madame  de  Remusat.  She  retained  in 
the  midst  of  scenes  the  most  dazzling  the  simple 
tastes  of  her  girlhood.  ^^'lJen  a  woman  of  the 
world,  experienced,  influential,  a  social  power,  her 
chief  interests  were  still  domestic.  Her  mind 
reverted  fondly  to  that  pleasant  Montmorency 
valley  where  leisure,  seclusion,  intellectual  com- 
panionship and  all  the  benefits  of  a  happy  home 
life  had  been  hers. 

She  had  gone  first  to  that  Montmorency  valley  a 
young  girl,  with  her  mother  and  her  sister,  when 
the  Revolution  issued  its  decree  against  the  nobles 
and  Paris  was  no  longer  habitable  for  them;  for 
that  lurid  hue,  which  the  Revolution  cast  on  all 
surrounding  objects,  had  colored  Madame  de  R^mu- 
sat's  early  youth.  Before  it  came,  the  little  Claire, 
so  she  was  called,  was  living  peacably  in  Paris 
with  her  parents.  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Ver- 
gennes,  and  her  younger  sister  Alix.  Her  father, 
Monsieur  deVergennes,  was  Master  of  Requests  and 
later  Director  of  the  Vingtiemes,  the  tax  on  property. 


MADAM  h:  I>E    U  KM  Us  AT.  275 

lie  was  nephew  to  tliat  Comte  de  Vergennes  who 
liad  been  minister  to  Louis  XVI.  His  family  was 
an  ancient  one,  aristocratic  and  illustrious. 
Madame  de  Vergennes,  his  wife,  was  a  bright,  prac- 
tical, kindly  woman  of  high  principles  and  keenly 
vigorous  mind.  She  superintended  the  education 
of  her  daughters.  In  that  house  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Eustache  where  they  lived,  a  large  room  was  set 
apart  as  a  school-room  for  the  little  girls.  There 
their  gfoverness  instructed  them  in  book  learning, 
and  they  were  also  taught  the  "frivolous  arts," — 
music,  dancing,  and  drawing.  Now  and  then,  as 
they  grew  older,  they  were  permitted  occasional 
peeps  at  the  big  world.  They  were  treated  to  a 
visit  to  the  opera  or  a  presentation  at  a  ball. 

At  length  the  fateful  year  of  '89  arrived.  ^Monsieur 
de  Vergennes  took  his  place  among  the  electors. 
Later  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Council  of 
the  Commune  and  a  mayor  of  the  National 
Guard.  He  drifted  resistlessly  into  the  current  of 
revolutionary  madness.  His  wife,  who  was  more 
prudent,  more  far-seeing,  more  prophetic  than  he, 
sousrht  to  restrain  him.  He  listened  to  her  when 
it  was  too  late.     He  died  on  the  scaffold  in  '94. 

It  was  on  the  morrow  of  this  tragedy  in  their 
home  that  Claire  and  her  mother  and  little  sister 
sought  a  refuge  at  Saint  Gratien  in  the  Montmo- 
rency valley,  that  fair  land  celebrated  by  Rousseau. 
Unprotected  and  in  straightened  circumstances, 
they   were   much   in  need   of   a   devoted   friend. 


276  MADAME  DE  BEMUSAT. 

Such  a  friend  they  had  in  Augustin  Laurent  de 
Remusat.  This  young  man,  at  the  outbreak  of 
the  Revolution,  had  come  to  Paris  as  deputy  from 
Aix.  On  his  arrival  in  the  city  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Monsieur  de  Vergennes,  and  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  home  of  the  Vergen- 
nes. He  had  lived  quietly  and  comparatively 
unknown  through  those  stormy  years.  When  tiie 
widow  de  Vergennes  and  her  two  daughters  emi- 
grated, it  was  his  wish  to  follow  them.  His 
services,  liis  kind]iess,  his  loyal  affection  had 
rendered  him  indispensable  to  the  little  family. 
Madame  de  Vergennes  could  not  oppose  his  wish. 
He  went  with  them  to  Saint  Gratien. 

One  forms  a  pleasant  picture  of  that  family 
circle  at  Saint  Gratien.  There,  the  centre  of  the 
group,  was  Madame  de  Vergennes,  engaged  in 
some  piece  of  sewing  for  one  of  her  girls,  now 
relating  a  "  piquant  story,"  now  "  stimulating " 
conversation  by  some  interesting  discussion,  always 
practical,  cheerful,  merry  —  an  ideal  mother.  Of 
the  two  girls,  Claire,  who  at  the  time  of  the  migra- 
tion to  Montmorency  was  fourteen  years  of  age,  was 
the  more  serious.  The  little  Alix  was  lively  and 
animated,  much  given  to  fliglits  of  fancy.  Claire 
was  a  grave,  studious  maiden,  very  womanly  for 
her  years,  and  something  of  a  philosopher  withal. 
Monsieur  de  Remusat  was  with  them  so  constantly 
that  he,  too,  had  come  to  be  considered  one  of  the 
family.      Social,    agreeable,    courteous,  he    was   a 


MADAME  DE  REM  US  AT.  277 

delightful  companion.  He  chatted  with  the  mother ; 
he  helped  tlie  daughters  with  their  lessons.  And, 
more  and  more  frequently,  as  the  months  went  by 
and  he  and  Claire  sat  side  by  side  at  the  round 
table  in  the  lamplight,  the  book  of  Horace  lay 
unnoticed  between  them.  They  spoke  of  other 
things  than  Latin.  Meanwhile,  the  eyes  of  Madame 
de  Vergennes  rested  contentedly  upon  them.  She 
did  not  anticipate,  yet,  when  she  saw  the  very 
natural  love  which  congeniality  of  tastes,  intimacy, 
solitude,  and  misfortune  were  engendering,  she  was 
not  surprised  or  sorry.  She  knew  that  her  daugh- 
ter's heart,  though  young,  was  ardent,  sensitive, 
emotional.  She  was  glad  to  give  it  into  the  keep- 
ing of  so  good  a  man  as  Augustin  de  Remusat. 

Claire  de  Vergennes  was  married  at  the  age  of 
sixteen  to  a  man  eighteen  years  her  senior.  He 
was  her  director  and  instructor  as  well  as  husband. 
There  at  Saint  Gratien,  in  the  same  house 
with  Madame  de  Vergennes  and  Alix,  Monsieur 
de  Remusat  and  his  young  wife  resided. 
Their  life  after  their  marriage,  as  before,  was  quiet 
and  secluded,  given  to  tlie  pleasures  of  the  country 
and  intellectual  pursuits.  Claire  was  a  mother  at 
seventeen,  and  her  education,  as  it  has  been  phrased, 
continued  "  under  the  tuition  of  her  husband  and 
at  the  cradle  of  her  son." 

Not  far  from  Saint  Gratien,  at  Sannois,  in  that 
same  lovely  Montmorency  vallc}^,  lived  Madame  d' 
Houdetot  and  her  husband  and  Monsieur  de  Saint 


278  MADAME  BE  E  EMU  SAT. 

Lambert.  These  were  neighboi'S  worth  having. 
A  friendly  intercourse  existed  between  the  two 
liouseholds,  and  when  Saint  Gratien  was  sold,  it 
was  to  Sannois  that  the  Vergennes  and  the  R^mu- 
sats  removed.  A  way  of  communication  was  cut 
through  the  gardens  of  the  two  estates,  and  the 
ties  of  hospitality  and  friendship  were  even  closer 
than  before. 

It  was  in  the  salon  of  Madame  d'  Houdetot  that 
Madame  de  Remusat  was  first  introduced  to  fash- 
ionable and  philosophic  society.  While  Paris  was 
yet  in  turmoil,  peace  reigned  here,  and  the 
courtesies  and  amenities  of  life  still  flourished. 

For  Madame  d'  Houdetot  herself,  Madame  de 
Remusat  entertained  a  sincere  affection.  She 
appreciated  her  charms,  her  talents,  her  cultivated 
tastes,  and  that  benevolence  and  perennial  youtli- 
fulness  of  mind  which  made  Madame  d'  Houdetot 
so  much  beloved.  And  yet  Madame  de  Remusat 
was  discreet  in  her  affection.  She  recognized 
the  danger  of  the  elder  woman's  example.  She 
recognized  it,  but  it  did  not  attract  her.  She 
spoke  thus  to  her  husband :  "  Madame  d'  Houdetot 
tells  of  past  joys,  of  memories  and  regrets,  with  a 
sort  of  childishness  and  ignorance  of  evil,  which 
seems  to  make  her  excusable.  Any  woman  who 
was  hesitating  between  love  and  virtue  would  do 
well  to  shun  her ;  she  is  a  hundred  times  more  dan- 
gerous than  an  utterly  corrupt  person.  She  is  so 
peaceful,  so  happy,  so  free  from  anxiety  as  to  the 


MADAME  DE  liEMUSAT.  279 

next  life.  It  would  seem  that  she  trusts  to  the 
words  of  the  Gospel,  '  Her  sins,  which  are  many, 
are  forgiven;  for  she  loved  much.'  Do  not  fear, 
however,  tliat  the  sight  of  this  tranquil  old  age 
following  on  an  erring  youth  will  upset  my  prin- 
ciples. I  do  not  pretend  to  he  stronger  than  others, 
but  I  feel  that  my  virtue  is  secure  because  it  is 
founded  on  happiness  and  love.  I  can  be  sure  of 
myself  because  I  love  you  and  am  beloved  by 
you." 

Another  intimacy  than  this  with  Madame  d' 
Houdetot,  and  one  that  was  destined  to  prove  more 
influential  in  the  lives  of  the  Remusats,  was  that 
with  Madame  Bonaparte.  She  had  been  known  to 
Madame  de  Vergennes  as  the  widow  of  General 
Beauharnais,  and  later,  at  Malmaison,  as  the  wife  of 
that  illustrious  hero  who  was  winning  glory  in  the 
East.  Madame  Bonaparte,  who  always  had  need 
of  confidants  and  who  passionately  desired  sym- 
pathy, attached  herself  affectionately  to  iMadame 
de  Vergennes  and  her  young  daughters.  Later, 
as  the  wife  of  the  First  Consul,  Madame  Bonaparte 
rose  to  a  position  of  power.  Meanwhile  order  had 
been  restored  in  Paris.  From  the  obscurity  and 
poverty  of  their  provincial  home,  the  eyes  of  the 
young  couple  at  Sannois  turned  wistfully  to  that 
field  of  opportunity  and  preferment.  Then  Mad- 
ame Vergennes  bethought  her  of  her  former  friend, 
and  applied  to  Madame  Bonaparte  for  a  position 
for  her  son-in-law.      Madame  Bonaparte  received 


280  MADAME  BE  REMUS  AT. 

her  graciously.  She  promised  more  than  was 
expected,  more  even  than  was  desired.  In  a  very- 
little  while  Monsieur  de  Remusat  was  appointed 
Prefect  of  the  Palace  and  Madame  de  Remusat 
Lady-in-waiting  to  Madame  Bonaparte.  In  their 
modesty  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Remusat 
shrank  from  accepting  such  distinction,  yet  they 
dared  not  refuse.  Truly  it  has  been  said  that  some 
have  greatness  thrust  upon  them. 

At  the  time  when  Monsieur  and  Madame  de 
Remusat  were  drawn  to  the  service  of  Napoleon, 
his  court  was  just  beginning.  Its  dignitaries  were 
almost  exclusively  military.  A  name  such  as 
theirs,  honorable  and  illustrious,  and  associated 
with  the  old  regime,  was  one  Avliich  the  First  Con- 
sul was  proud  to  put  upon  his  list.  He  showed 
them  signal  favor.  In  those  early  years  he  was  at 
his  best,  young,  natural,  and  as  yet  unspoiled  by 
fortune.  He  charmed  and  dazzled  Monsieur  and 
Madame  de  Remusat.  Brought  suddenly  into  the 
blaze  of  his  glory,  their  eyes  were  blinded.  They 
served  liim  gladly,  admiringly,  unquestioningly. 
But  later,  as  he  became  more  and  more  confident, 
grew  arrogant,  and  abused  his  power,  they  with- 
drew that  absolute  devotion.  Little  by  little  they 
were  disillusioned.  They  found  their  hero  not  the 
hero  they  had  thought  him.  It  was  the  death  of 
the  Duke  d'  Engheim  which  began  the  Avork  of 
disenchantment.  That  was  a  great  grief  to  them. 
Madame  could  not  speak  of  it  for  her  tears.    There- 


MADAM K  BK  REMUSAT.  281 

after  their  attitude  was  one  of  silent  criticism. 
Napoleon  felt  their  disaffection,  and  no  longer 
showed  them  that  marked  attention  which  he  had 
first  awarded.  Then  their  allegiance  to  the 
Empress  Josephine,  which  continued  unchanged 
after  the  divorce,  removed  them  rather  farther  from 
his  patronage.  And,  fina%,  their  friendship  for 
Talleyrand  brought  upon  themselves  a  reflection  of 
that  minister's  disgrace.  They  did  not  fall  from 
favor,  but  they  gradually  ceased  to  be  there. 

For  a  long  while,  howevei",  they  were  on  the  top 
wave.  They  formed  a  prominent  and  important 
part  of  a  life  that  was  overflowing  with  interest. 
They  could  not  but  be  amused.  Madame  espe- 
cially was  entertained  by  the  play  going  on  about 
hei'.  She  was  young, —  twenty-two  at  the  time  of 
her  appointment,  —  earnest,  and  enthusiastic. 
Things  appealed  to  her  imagination.  She  took  an 
impersonal  view  of  people  and  events  ;  she  was 
interested  in  a  disinterested  way.  Every  evening 
she  noted  down  the  occurrences  of  the  day.  She 
compiled  a  valuable  record  which,  alas,  was  not 
destined  to  survive  its  time. 

This  court  life,  its  opportunities  for  conversation 
and  experience,  was  a  sort  of  literature  to  her  —  a 
book  which  she  enjoyed  reading.  Of  course  her 
attitude  was  one  which  was  sure  to  be  misinter- 
preted. Ambitious  people  thought  her  ambitious. 
Selfish  people  accused  her  of  intrigue.  The  unin- 
telligent were  a  bit  afraid  of  her ;  they  could  not 


282  MADAME  BE  REMUtiAT. 

forgive  lier  for  having  opinions  and  views  wliicli 
they  could  not  appreciate.  She  was  pedantic  they 
said.  The  name  "  savant,"  as  applied  to  her,  was 
spoken  by  others  than  the  emperor.  Neverthe- 
less, Madame  de  Remusat  was  a  success.  She 
was  a  woman  of  intelligence.  She  soon 
learned  to  adapt  hei^self  to  her  position.  She 
acquired  ease  and  address,  and  developed  a  talent 
for  conversation.  She  was  quick  to  perceive  a 
thought;  she  listened  well ;  she  could  follow  a  train 
of  reasoning  with  understanding ;  she  had  the  gift 
of  the  right  word.  It  was  for  reasons  such  as  these, 
no  doubt,  that  Napoleon  and  Talleyrand  liked  to 
talk  with  her. 

One  can  easily  see  that  she  was  an  excellent 
guide  for  Josephine  Bonaparte.  Despite  her  sweet 
and  gracious  disposition,  the  empress  was  jealous, 
frivolous,  and  flighty.  She  needed  the  support  of 
a  calm  and  prudent  mind.  Such  support  Madame 
de  Remusat  could  give.  None  knew  this  better 
than  the  emperor.  Very  often  he  was  heard  to 
say,  "  The  empress  is  well  advised." 

The  petty  ambitions  and  dissensions  of  court  life 
greatly  amused  Madame  de  Remusat.  One  was 
joyous  or  one  was  depressed,  accordingly  as  one 
was  elevated  to  some  new  dignity  or  disregarded. 
All  this  seemed  very  absurd  to  Madame  de  Remusat, 
but  not  at  all  surprising.  One  dav  she  herself 
was  in  very  good  spirits,  jesting  with  a  company 
of  friends.     One  of  Bonaparte's  aides-de-camp  ac- 


MADAME  1)K  BEMUSAT.  283 

COS  ted  lier.  What  new  lionor  had  been  conferred 
on  lier,  ho  queried,  curiously.  Madame  regarded 
liim  a  moment  in  bewilderment.  Then,  perceiving 
his  meaning,  she  laughed  heartily.  "  Do  you  fancy," 
she  retorted,  "  that  at  Saint  Cloud  one  must  always 
be  in  tears  if  one  is  not  a  princess  ?  " 

After  the  divorce  and  the  empress's  retirement 
to  Malmaison,  the  duties  of  Madame  de  Remusat 
were  lightened.  She  was  able  to  spend  much  of 
her  time  in  her  own  home.  She  was  happy  there, 
and  she  was  much  visited.  Among  her  frequent 
guests  were  Monsieur  Suard,  the  Abbe  Morellet, 
Monsieur  Guizot,  and  she  who  afterwards  became 
Madame  Guizot,  that  is  Mademoiselle  de  Meulan, 
Monsieur  de  Fontanes,  Gerard,  the  painter,  and 
even,  it  has  been  whispered.  Monsieur  de  Chateau- 
briand. Indeed,  the  drawing-room  in  her  house,  in 
the  Place  Louis  Quinz,  legitimately  takes  its  place 
among  the  salons  of  the  empire. 

Later,  under  the  Restoration,  Monsieur  de  Remu- 
sat was  appointed  Prefect  of  Toulouse  and  after- 
wards of  Lille.  Thus,  in  their  middle  life,  as  in 
their  early  youth.  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Remu- 
sat enjoyed  together  the  pleasures  of  provincial 
life,  its  retirement,  its  quiet,  and  its  opportunities 
for  study  and  reflection.  For  Madame  de  Remusat, 
too,  it  afforded  a  chance  to  indulge  her  literary 
talent. 

For  many  years  she  had  been  an  unsuspected 
author.     In   her   girlhood   she    wrote    essays    and 


284  MADAME  BE  REM U SAT. 

novelettes,  and  made  metrical  translations  of  the 
"  Odes  of  Horace."  After  her  retirement  from  offi- 
cial life  she  wrote  her  "  Memoirs  of  the  Empire." 
In  her  mind,  and  sometimes  half  confided  to  paper, 
were  numerous  romances.  Some  of  these  she  com- 
pleted. Of  these,  "  The  Spanish  Letters,"  begun 
in  1804  at  the  Imperial  Court  and  published  in 
1820,  was  the  most  important.  It  savored  of  her 
court  life ;  its  characters  suggested  people  of  her 
acquaintance ;  it  had  the  touch,  the  tone  of  reality, 
and,  in  addition,  a  vein  of  refined  sentiment.  Both 
worldly  and  romantic,  it  was  not  unlike  the  author 
herself.  Madame  de  Remusat's  last  literary  labor 
was  her  volume  on  the  "  Education  of  Women." 
She  looked  into  the  future,  to  the  new  order  that 
was  rising  on  the  foundations  of  the  old,  and 
pictured  the  ideal  woman  who,  she  hoped,  might 
come.  She  was  a  mother  when  she  wrote,  and  her 
interest  was  quickened  by  the  thought  that  this 
future  which  she  contemplated  would  be  the 
present  of  her  son. 

And  now  we  come  to  that  fact  in  the  career  of 
Madame  de  Remusat  which  is,  perhaps,  its  most 
charming  —  that  is  her  motherhood.  In  a  brief 
essay  on  "  Coquetry,"  Madame  de  Remusat  ex- 
presses herself  thus : 

"  It  is  in  the  years  between  thirty  and  forty 
that  women  are  commonly  inclined  to  coquetry. 
Younger,  they  please  without  effort,  and  by  virtue 
of  their  very  ignorance.     But  when  their  spring- 


MADAME  DE  REMUS  AT.  285 

time  has  passed,  they  begin  to  employ  address  in 
order  to  retain  the  homage  which  it  woukl  be  pain- 
ful to  renounce.  Sometimes  they  attempt  to  adorn 
themselves  with  a  semblance  of  that  innocence  to 
which  so  much  of  their  success  is  due.  They  are 
wrong.  Every  age  has  its  advantages  as  well  as 
its  duties.  A  woman  of  thirty  has  seen  the  world, 
and  has  knowledge  of  evil,  even  if  she  has  done 
nothing  but  good.  At  that  age  she  is  ordinarily 
a  mother.  At  this  crisis  she  must  have  the  cour- 
age to  unclasp  the  zone  of  Venus.  Consider  the 
charms  whereof  the  poet  declares  it  to  be  composed. 
Are  they  the  ornaments  of  virtuous  maternity  ? 

"  '  There  Love,  there  young  Desire, 
There  fond  Discourse,  and  there  Persuasion  dwelt, 
Which  oft  enthralls  the  mind  of  wisest  man.' 

"  But  what  strength  it  requires  to  be  the  first  to 
lay  aside  an  ornament  like  this  !  With  a  little 
care,  it  would  still  so  well  become  the  wearer  ! 
Yet,  a  few  more  years,  and  the  zone  will  fall  of 
itself,  refusing  to  deck  charms  that  are  already 
withered.  Then  how  would  one  blush  at  the  sight 
of  it,  sadly  repeating  like  the  Greek  courtesan  who 
consecrated  her  mirror  to  eternal  beauty,  '  I  give 
thee  to  Venus,  for  she  is  always  fair.' 

"  Is  it  not  Avise  to  provide  in  advance  for  our 
inevitable  disappointment  by  anticipating  it  with 
courage?  The  sacrifices  which  reason  dictates 
have  this  advantage, —  that  the  effort  they  cost  is  in 


286  MADAME  BE  REMUS  AT. 

itself  their  reward.  Oh,  mothers,  gather  your 
children  about  you  early.  Dare  to  say  when  they 
come  into  the  world  that  your  youth  is  passing  into 
theirs.  Oh,  mothers,  be  mothers,  and  you  will  be 
wise  and  happy!" 

When  Madame  de  Remusat  wrote  thus  she  was 
thirty-two  years  old,  an  attractive  woman  still. 
She  might  have  kept  her  girdle  longer  without 
impunity,  and  yet  she  has  never  been  so  fair,  it 
seems,  than  at  this  moment  when  she  abandons  it. 
Nothing  is  wanting  to  her  adornment,  since  she 
wears  so  well  that  "  majestic  dignity  "  in  praise  of 
which  she  speaks. 

Madame  de  Remusat  was  the  mother  of  two 
sons.  Of  Albert,  the  younger  of  the  two,  it  has 
been  said :  "  His  faculties  never  completely  de- 
veloped ;  he  was  a  child  to  the  end."  To  this  son 
she  gave  tender  compassion  and  devoted  care. 
But  it  was  Charles,  the  eldest,  who  satisfied  her 
hopes,  who  realized  her  ambitions,  who  filled  her 
heart.  She  was  but  seventeen  years  his  senior ; 
their  tastes,  their  feelings  were  delightfully  con- 
genial and  intimate.  They  were  not  merely 
mother  and  son,  they  were  brother  and  sister,  too. 
She  advised  and  encouraged  him  ;  she  put  wise 
thoughts  into  his  head,  the  value  of  her  experience. 
In  return  he  renewed  her  youth,  for  how  could 
she  grow  gray,  in  staid  and  emotionless  maturit}^, 
while  she  looked  at  the  world  through  his  ardent 
young  eyes  ? 


MADAME  DE  BEMUSAT.  287 

It  is  pleasant  to  overhear  this  mother  and  son 
chatting  confidentially  together.  They  were  the 
best  of  comrades,  yet,  on  his  part  there  was 
always  filial  reverence,  and  on  hers  maternal 
care. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  writes  to  him  at  his  school 
on  the  advent  of  his  sixteenth  birthday,  "  I  follow 
you  step  by  step  in  all  your  studies,  and  I  see  you 
are  full  of  work  during  this  montli  of  July  which 
I  am  passing  so  monotonously.  I  know  pretty 
well,  too,  all  you  say  and  do  on  Thursdays  and 
Sundays.  Madame  de  Grasse  tells  me  of  your 
little  talks,  and  amuses  me  with  it  all.  For 
instance,  she  told  me  that  the  other  day  you  had 
praised  me  to  her,  and  said  that  when  you  and  I 
talk  together  you  are  sometimes  tempted  to  think 
me  too  clever.  But  you  need  not  be  checked  by 
any  fear  of  that,  for  you,  my  dear  child,  have  at 
least  as  much  wit  as  I.  I  tell  you  so  frankly, 
because  that  gift,  although  an  advantage,  needs 
many  other  things  to  support  it,  and  therefore  you 
may  take  my  words  rather  as  warning  than  as 
praise.  If  my  conversation  with  you  often  takes  a 
serious  turn,  you  must  impute  it  to  the  fact  that  I 
am  your  mother,  and  have  not  relinquished  that 
role.  When  I  need  no  longer  advise  and  warn 
you,  we  shall  talk  together  quite  at  our  ease,  inter- 
changing our  reflections,  our  remarks,  and  our 
opinions  on  everything  and  everybody  quite 
frankly,  without  fear  of  vexing  each  other ;  in  fact, 


288  MADA3IE  DE  REMUSAT. 

with  all  sincere  and  intimate  friendship  which,  I 
believe,  may  perfectly  well  exist  between  a  mother 
and  a  son.  There  are  not  so  many  years  between 
us  as  to  prevent  me  from  sympathizing  with  your 
youth,  or  sharing  some  of  your  feelings.  Women's 
shoulders  wear  young  heads,  and  in  the  head  of  a 
motlier  one  side  is  always  just  the  same  age  as  her 
child's. 

"  Madame  de  Grasse  told  me  also  that  you  want 
to  amuse  yourself  during  these  holidays  by  writing 
some  of  your  notions  on  various  subjects.  I  think 
you  are  right.  It  will  be  interesting  for  you  to 
read  them  again  in  a  few  years.  Your  father  would 
say  I  want  to  make  you  a  scribbler  like  myself,  — 
for  he  does  not  stand  on  ceremony  with  me,  — but 
I  do  not  care.  There  can  be  no  harm  in  setting 
down  one's  thoughts,  in  writing  for  one's  own  self 
alone,  and  I  think  both  taste  and  style  will  be 
formed  in  this  way." 

Then  she  goes  on  to  speak  of  still  more  intimate 
matters.  She  contemplates  his  character;  she 
dwells  especially  on  one  point— his  behavior 
to  others. 

"You  are  polite,"  she  says,  "more  so,  indeed, 
than  is  customary  at  your  age ;  you  have  a  pleas- 
ant manner  in  addressing  people,  and  you  are  a 
good  listener.  Do  not  let  this  last  quality  slip. 
Madame  de  Sevigne  says  that  appreciative  silence 
is  a  mark  of  superior  sense  in  young  people.  '  But, 
mother,  what  are  you  driving  at  ?     You  promised 


MADAME  DE  BEMUSAT.  289 

to  point  out  a  fault,  and  hitherto  I  see  nothing  like 
one.  A  father's  blow  turns  aside.  Let  us  come 
to  the  fact,  my  dear  mother.'  So  I  will,  my  son, 
in  a  moment.  I  have  a  sore  throat  and  can  only 
speak  slowly.  Well,  then,  you  are  polite.  When 
you  are  asked  to  do  something'  which  will  gratify 
those  you  love,  you  consent  willingly ;  but  when  an 
opportunity  of  so  doing  is  merely  pointed  out  to 
you,  natural  indolence  and  a  certain  love  of  self 
make  you  hesitate,  and,  when  left  to  yourself, 
you  do  not  seek  such  opportunities  for  fear  of  the 
trouble  they  may  entail.  Can  you  understand 
these  subtle  distinctions  ?  While  you  are  still 
partly  under  my  authority  I  can  influence  and 
guide  you,  but  you  will  soon  have  to  answer  for 
yourself,  and  I  would  wish  you  to  think  a  little 
about  other  people,  notwithstanding  the  claims  of 
your  own  youth,  which  are  naturally  engrossing." 

Thus  did  Madame  de  Remusat  perform  the  role 
of  mother.  She  mixed  praise  and  blame.  She 
did  not  scold,  she  reasoned.  She  did  not  com- 
mand, she  pointed  out  the  way.  One  cannot 
wonder  that  she  endeared  herself  infinitely  to  her 
son,  and,  dying,  bequeathed  to  him  "  a  life-long 
sorrow." 

The  death  of  Madame  de  Remusat  occurred  in 
1821,  when  she  was  forty-one  years  of  age.  For 
her  there  was  no  decline.  She  died  in  the  fulness 
of  her  powers.  She  was  devoted  to  the  welfare 
of  her  home,  busy  with  her  literary  labors,  inter- 


290  MADA3rE  BE  REMUSAT. 

esterl  in  her  husband's  official  career  in  the  prov- 
inces, and  in  that  literary  success  which  her 
talented  son  was  already  winning  for  himself  in 
Paris.  She  was  still  of  the  world,  and  in  close 
sympathy  witli  it.  And  never  had  she  been  more 
charming.  She  had  grown  easy,  sprightly,  merry, 
with  her  years.  She  had  brought  earnestness  into 
society,  and  from  society  had  derived  freshness  and 
spontaneity. 

Madame  de  Remusat  faced  the  mysterious  beyond 
with  awe  and  trepidation.  She  reviewed  her  life. 
Her  charities  had  been  trifling  ;  she  had  made  few 
sacrifices ;  her  life  was  almost  empty  of  good 
works.  She  was  "  puffed  up  "  with  her  felicity ; 
proud  of  her  titles  of  daughter,  wife,  and  mother. 
She  had  not  hated,  because  her  heart  was  full  of 
love.  She  had  been  virtuous,  because  she  had  been 
happy.  With  such  a  record,  how  would  God  re- 
ceive her?  The  Abbe  Duval  calmed  her  troubled 
mind.  Her  happiness  was  a  proof  of  God's  love 
he  said.  Religion  very  often  demanded  a  life  of 
action.  She  had  served  God  in  the  world.  There 
was  her  charity,  her  sacrifice,  her  work  of  piety. 

It  is  a  fitting  encomium,  this  of  the  Abbe 
Duval's.  Let  us  take  leave  of  Madame  de  Remusat, 
honoring  her  as  he  honored  her,  declaring  with  his 
voice,  "She  served  God  in  the  world."  No 
epitaph  could  be  found  sweeter  or  more  true. 


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